Another...interesting day poetically, I suppose. The Poetic Asides prompt was to write a "second thoughts" poem. It is the first poem I have here today. My second poem came from a funny Twitter tweet from this hilarious woman I follow who says completely outrageous and politically incorrect stuff. Her tweet was "Parents always get so fucking weird when I ask if I can pet their babies." I knew something would come from that, so that's the second poem.
The wailing begins again at 3am,
so he wills his sleep heavy body
out from under blanket warmth.
Heavy feet arrive at the infant's
room. He raises her to his shoulder
and sways back and forth to nothing
but the mating of crickets and house
sounds while he walks towards the
coat closet, finds his spring jacket
and digs for a lighter. The episode
is over quickly, her late night terrors
subsided. He gently lays her back
under her pink blanket and creeps out
into the backyard to smoke, into the
garage to contemplate, into the car,
onto a long stretch of highway to find
the life he imagined twenty years ago,
far away from suburbia.
Can I pet your baby?
You pierce their tender ears and
dress them in bows and hats,
display them like porcelain playthings
in your strollers and double wide strollers
and everyone thinks they're oh-so-cute
that they want to squeeze cheeks and
and make stroke patient noises at them,
but all I want to do is pet them,
like I do my dachshund, and maybe,
give them a little treat, if they have
the choppers to gnaw them down to swallow size.
I want to know if they can roll over or
do any tricks, because most of them just
lay there with vacant eyes taking in the
faces around them and wondering what to do.
My dog doesn't mess with that bullshit.
She has a plan and knows what she gets
for a being a sideshow act: food.
So don't get all weird on me when I ask
if I can pet your baby.