Mind and body

A sticky head remained firmly glued
To a body that thought like another
And acted as one, in peals of laughter.
Suppose it were born a few secs later
When breeze was softer and purpler
As midwife played truant drinking tea
It might have been a quantum physicist
With a quivering beard in Royal society.

The eyes would have no stretch lines
About them, only swift brush strokes.
There would be nobody running after
With murder on mind, no unborn kid
To the wet eyes of mother's pure love.
The stars might have shone on a mom
Or on a real bearded quantum physicist
Not one the sticky head thought it was.

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