Simeon, that’s a big boy you’ve got on your hands.
He looks more like forty months than forty days.
He also looks like he knows what you are going
to say, and is just waiting for you to say it.
As in, Come on, old man. Get on with the prophecy.

It’s hard to ignore that kind of impatience.
Makes you hesitate a little. Those sad and ancient
eyes of yours—all these years of waiting to offer
your pregnant part, and now to be upstaged
by a little god who just wants you to finish up.

So, maybe it is time to revise. Say something
a bit different than what you have long intended.
Promise a little pain ahead, a speaking against.
Falling and risings. Swords. Piercings.
For, why not? It’s probably coming anyway.