Pick Up Sticks

Pick Up Sticks

Baby, I like how you
are assembled, one atom

snapped into another
like tinker toys. Tight genes,

baby. Dominant, too.
Where are my manners,

I suppose I haven’t
learned them yet, or they

haven’t stuck. Your
skin is the color of band-aids,

freshly unwrapped,
you smell like My Little Ponies,

like sugary, pliable
plastic. You could camp out

in my love for you,
because it is in tents. Pillow

forts and night lights.
Sleepovers. You are so fine,

baby, do you know
you are going to be just fine.