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Baby of the world, unrecyclable moral standard of American culture, you're on the go, lounger bouncer in pure cotton nappies free of dioxins. Born a monster, you may yet mature Of the tentacles with which you root yourself now to rock, to tendon, to milk and mind, to the slatted crib's sleek-styled nursery necessity. Oh, you future, you juggernaut, you Are our charge, but how can we save you who can only stare astonished at your progress: even cooking in the uterus you were a total social function, breeding shower invitations, sleep-sets, tough or cuddly accouterments and now, being born, serums, fluids, two-way radios, diaper pails, and college funds. Little creeper, you're our keeper, jailor, chaperone: we'll never see the world again without your stamp, your chubby heel, the heartbeat that calls out to our own. posted by Reen |link| 0 comments |