Poor Baby

Oh poor baby!

How they ridiculed you

and called you names.

How they made fun of your tears

and the way you thrashed your arms

and cried “foul!”


“Foul,” you screamed.

Wiping your snot

with your designer bib

and reaching out for your

glass bottle filled with

organic cows milk.


You cried and screamed,

slammed your hands on the ground,

and gathered up all your toys

and refused to let the other kids

play with them.


You always found some poor mother

to feel sorry for you and pick you up

and coddle you,

to say “shame on you”

to the other children

and send them home without lunch.


Your face, pressed against

the sympathetic breasts of your mother,

breaks out into a smile.


The playground is all yours, poor baby.

You are king of the monkey bars

and the see-saw

and the swing.


And all the other mothers forgot

that playground isn’t yours,

was never yours.

And who knew the reason they made fun of you

was because not all the kids in the yard

wanted to play your game.


Oh poor baby.


When we finally all grow up,

you’ll discover

you can’t always have it your way

and Mommy won’t always be around.



One thought on “Poor Baby

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