You keep complaining that there are two people 
               inside me—

the one confident, decisive, ironic;                                                                                      the other a raging cripple
who never took to the nipple,                                                                                        whose life has been one long                                                                                        episode of colic.

Just admit you don’t know which one you like better,                                                which one rings your bell.

I happen to like them both.
I make the one drive the other around and around                                                          the glistening night streets of our town
to try and calm him,
calm him down.

I want them to be inseparable, inevitable.                                                                            I don’t want the children to suffer.