The plastic bath-float of Meagerbird had snapped.

“Meagerbird is his favorite,” my wife told me.

Chipped fragments had become caltrops in carpet,

and a sliced foot had reached into wee-screeching notes.

“He’s cried for two hours now, but not from the cut.”

“I’ll fix Meagerbird,” I said, and there was an attempt,

but take her apart and she burst, then the spring

would not set, the choke was clogged, and Meagerbird

was destroyed.

I now drive to the toy pavilion, walk by toyish baubles.

Spongebob is discolored, faded, motionless, dying.

Hot Wheels are hazardous throat-chokes, and vanish,

and most dolls are the work of role stamps.

In utero, he heard me say through the belly:

“Basking water-boy driving an egg, kick to the voice,

veer to the music, tra la la.”

Meagerbird sings as well, though not today,

and so I flit and hop, finding his replacement

in plentiful supply.