The Child Behind the Wall

So let’s tell it straight.
They send him into a room
to do his thing,
grab his weight in cash.
I’ve got my legs spread
for a gelled dildo and plastic
umbilical cords.
The monitor displays screens
of pixeled shadows.

Optimistic folk
tell me about a 45 first,
the blessing of twins
and Baby Jay,
but their stories are as stale
as a decade’s crumbs.

They told me you would come
two years ago now.
An herbalist’s tricks might
prod this old fruit.
But I’ve drawn no door
in the wall through which
to call you home.