That he was blue you took to be the least of it.
Sitting beastly large, Edwardian and cramped
upon a too-small chair, fat hands protectively
astride his belly as if somewhere therein lay
the indigestible dark genesis of Freudian despair,
he was the avatar of every misbegotten stress,
anxiety, hand-wringing care – and there it was.
Your indigo eternity of brooding incapacity.
The azure proof you were a problem. You
disagreed – awoke – toddled to the loo and peed.
.
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