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He mostly knows what to expect 
when he comes over to my house. 
His breakfast egg is smooth and white. 
It's a cracked shell and something hot 
for which he contributes pepper.

Like his whirly toy with its round 
wood platform suspended by strings, 
he spins one way till the tension 
builds, then swings back the other, still 
only when he's lost his interest.

Surprise is half the game, even 
if only pretend. Who's under 
that hat, and who's eyes are hidden? 
A freight train looms, and he watches 
each boxcar until it is gone.

At his own pace, with a nudge from me, 
he guides us toward what he wants next. 
Each devise must be shown how it works. 
Each spice on the rack, each TV 
cartoon, reaffirmed by name.

His drawings follow the human 
pattern-first scribbles like circles 
then confident swirls, round-
and roundnow dots placed over those circles. 
It's his own wave/particle scheme.

After I've cleaned his bottom, we 
tickle and roughhouse off to bed. 
And reading his book, he waves a finger 
at the bad puppy chewing a shoe, 
but we both know nothing is wrong.