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 can’t always have it your way
and Mommy won’t always be around.