The pruned man with heavy eyelids slouched
in his chair, almost dozing, thick
words oozing from his mouth: If a man likes children
he needs a background check.
I don’t know any man who likes children.
His body jiggles in awareness of his surroundings.
He glances towards a man at the counter.
Do you like children?
I don’t.
He leans back in his chair like a sunken walrus.
He reads the newspaper with bulbous hands,
palms like turnips.
Is he fertile?
Was he ever a child himself?
Did his son call him today?