There is a boy in a
tub with red sails unfurled
riding the wind-tossed
waves of some discontent
sea
mother's broom stick
bears up his red trousers
like the flag of a pirate
ship
Alone, the boy lies in his
clean, white tub
eyes closed, drifting
away in a headlong
current
waves lap against the
pristine porcelain
and reverberate with a chorus of
claps, like some wrought up
crowd
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