Without A Mouth To Feed Poem by James McLain

and for now i am
away from that
from which such grief
these are my longest of
my two longest short
each brief days.
and entering the store
and she too whom
i offered up, my eyes.
and full with child,
is she, though not of mine.
her hand touched not
the key
though mine touched hers.
and lovely though they are
they are
so fair and pale and milky
white and full.
and being nearly though
not quite
her eyes did say
i could, i whispered in her ear
but 'said' instead.
i know they are
and how your back must hurt
at times
and even though they do right
now
as i am close enough to smell
each dropp you spill,
wait until you are at home
and have your
man
do what you need,
and have it done, because.
he does not know,
so can you not explain to him
how sore you are
and how warm the wash cloth
helps you.
make it through each lonley night,
without a mouth to feed.