Depressions Poem by robert dickerson

Depressions, my children, I clutch you to me:
lame, stupid, squint-eyed, low birth weight,
and on your wanting smile patiently.
You are mine. There is nothing to do but wait
for you to prosper and outgrow
the awful limitations you now show.
For, presently, shall not the lame walk straight?
The meager hefty wax? The blind man see?
The brows of the dull bear luminous freight?
You shall get me children, yet,
happy, healthy, squalling, bawling, how
happy I shall be to see them grow,
happy I shall be to see them go
remembering the fever and the fret.