Inky. Binky. Bonky.
While we all worried
about daddy's donkey dying,
we were blind to it all.
Blind to the casual,
cold and constant
calluses that built
upon our pure hearts.
That which awe once
captured has pattered
away with "progress"
that patterns itself
on the slate slab
of someone else's senses.
Just let our fists
tap around in circles and
beat upon our breasts.
Just let our giggles
over daddy's cries
rise as an oblation
to these sacred moments.
Inky. Binky. Bonky.
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