He always seems to be too small or too large for his environment
Regardless of how many clothes he owns or how saddled his
Nappies are, and though there is a narrow window of perfect
Fit it always comes along in the middle of the night.
There he invariably hitches himself up the length of the cot’s shelf,
Gently resting his head on the animal covered buffer, and starts
Discharging pre banshee giggles which are just loud enough
To prepare you for the full orchestration of his hunger.
For ever since he learned to link his yearnings to a verbal swirl,
Worthy of Stockhausen, he knows the last one in the bed
Will be the first one out, and we retire earlier each night in
Order to stake the safe spot as our own and sleep through.
There are no intermissions though, no lack of devotees, and all the
Special effects of his presence are pre-digital, strings visible,
Clearly green screened and available for any to revel in when
Editing a change of clothes that seem to shrink once removed.
But he grows and we know that eventually his crib will be lifted
To the nursery down the hall where he’ll keep the seams of his
Nocturnal activities to himself until dawn, and then settle into
The slightly short sleeves and floppy feet of his all in ones.