...loomed.
Just then, Tiddler came up.
"Good afternoon, David,"
said my mother. I hadn't known
Tiddler's actual name, ere this.
Tiny, fine-boned, frail,
he was in some way underformed.
Some mysterious brush with something
grown-ups, hushed, named "diphtheria".
"What's that, Tiddler?" ventured I.
His end-of-year school photo.
He proffered it, reluctantly.
My raucous guffaw split the air.
I don't remember handing it back -
just my mo......
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