Call the chaser of laser lights,
The slender one, and let him scratch
On the corrugated cardboard box in the corner.
Let the expected slouch in maternity dress
As she has become used to wearing,
And bid the husband her bulging stomach.
Let the grocery bag fall to the floor.
The only king is the king of caves.
Take from the nursery in waiting.
Lacking the most important guest of all, that sheet
Of which is made from softest fleece and place it
Over the swollen legs that beg for scratching.
If more baby blankets balloon, they show
How easy they become tunnels worth exploration.
Let the paper bag sit on its side.
The only king is the king of caves.
Translator's Note: Dima felt like the stealthy caves when this picture was taken. While sitting in that paper bag, he recited "Sunday Morning" and "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens. I asked him if he knew "The Emperor of Ice-Cream," and he said he didn't. I told him that it was a poem I had to analyze in college. He called for me to recite the poem, and instantly he was inspired. Here is his homage.
