Some bitch has got her baby outside the front of my house, and the thing is squawking, he looks up from between his pillow mountain, wonky-eyed. He doesn't know that for sure, it is an assumption. It could be a metrosexual with one of those snazzy baby back packs. It could be two queers proving their love is real. Really? Of all the houses of all the world, nay, of all the houses in our fair city, of all the crummy gin joints, you had to pick mine to which to bring your kid, he thinks. He relaxes his neck and rests back down onto the mattress. His head is warm up against the bull dog's furry head. Buddy breathes rhythmically. The light is gentle. The baby cries.
No comments:
Post a Comment