round soft and shiny
like skin colored play dough
you could mold with your fingers
if you pinched hard enough.
He smiles when he sees me
and the clay hardens in his cheeks,
cheeks turning red,
eyes getting squinty
as his bright wide eyes turn into slits.
His hands smell sticky.
Sour, but sweet.
At his wrist, a crease:
like a miniature rubber band squeezing
the skin colored clay.
Most of the time his wrists
reside in his mouth,
a clay ball shoved in an even bigger one.
And the noise he makes
as he shoves and yells and
squeals, blubbering in high and low-pitched tones,
inaudible, indelible,
makes me smile with a face
hopefully not resembling
a big ball of clay.
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