It all came back with the birth 
of my boy
while zipping him into 
his snuggly soft cotton one…
the feel of a sleeper
my own,
pilled polyester
legs kicking
toes pressing
into the footies
crying out loud in ’68
Dad called me Razehell.
Today a librarian,
still emotional,
called an old ass 
cry baby
I prefer quinquagenarian,
just to be clear.