Keith Snyder
Door always open.

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Formulaic writing

The bottle gushes onto baby's face.
His onesie soaks, his neck the final place
Where formula encrusts and takes its hold,
To curdle in the warm and tender fold.

Sleep deprivation, fear of SIDS, and diapers
Are nothing to us baby-bottom wipers:
We yearn, we strive, we search--yet still we seek
A bottle that predictably won't leak.

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