LIVING WITH PEOPLE
The baby cries,
and cries, and cries.
No reason's seen, unless
she's still at war with her weaning.
Her mother tries every
caress, comfort, distraction,
except the breast
- tries. The baby cries.
Childless male, I can't read
in peace. I won't pretend
I share the child's
distress. (O, quell it!)
Or the mother's? Well, I
feel it, yes, but less
than my own irritation.
Quell that howling!
Quell it, any how!
I'll yell it now,
repel this invasion....
But wait -
home in my own indignation
a twisting pinch of doubt:
I grow (damnwell!) guiltbent
about my decent, simple right
to claim my quiet, my quiet,
to (even invisibly) resent
this tearing of my time,
my time that's
tattered ragged while
the
baby
cries.
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