Morning lingers over a quart jar of baby teeth, each with note, drawings and thank yous to the fairy 

I'm nearly drawn in 

Over the second cup of cafe

But can't afford to spend a dry autumn day not fiddling for rent, clothing, necessities 

I bring surreal's present, a book in a box, whose postage is twice the cost of the novel 

Printed in 1891, 102 years before my first child was born 

Here in stumptown, 30 years back. Her namesake tree, planted along with her mom's placenta, may be large, or gone.  

People remodel, get dentures. They want a patio, not a tree. They want a view, not shade. 

Birds can eat fast food from the wrappers in the street. 

The tiniest teeth are her sisters, from when she'd tower over them in her weekends at her second home. Her mother may have her tooth fairy chompers. 

Fog takes sight backward to a minimum distance. There's no jar filled with memories, only my mind, brimming with baby.