Copyright 2007

Whose child this is, I can not say,

I'd love to stop and watch him play,

But I've got things to buy and sell,

My world is real and his is clay.

Perhaps, I have some time to dwell,

Before returning to my cell,

I pause a moment to look back,

A tiny beeper breaks my spell.

Somewhere down the road I pack,

All my things into a sack,

So much I have to take with me,

Yet sorrow for the time I lack.