The Old Cure For Depression Poem by S.K. Bleakhouse

To my sweet baby, face alight tonight
When I arrived. Smiling, no words yet said
by such a young one. In the evening light
his soft hair curled in rings on his head,
his eyes shown brown in the late glow of day,
his plump shape bursting from his too small clothes:
the nine-month old pants, tight socks in the way
of his pumping feet and his fat, fine toes.
Such a happy one to take me away
from monotonous bitter thoughts of work,
and fruitless struggles with parents who may
pass out of my life soon. For them death lurks
so near, but for my young boy, only one
year old on this day, time still lightly runs.