The word defect just doesn't sit well,
Conjuring some sort of malfunction,
A shopping cart of misfits,
A toaster that holds the bread ransom,
A doll whose eyes close when awake.
Congenital? Congenial suited him more;
That bridge of freckles
Splattered as a wholesome sneeze,
Liquid brown eyes imploring for seconds.
Seconds he had, and minutes,
As the secret ticked away,
As the blood gathered and plotted
Wife and children, they whisper.
Someone has reached down
With big imposing hands,
And pinched the flame
Between finger and thumb.
One can do that,
When cultivating a proper callous.