Babysitting the Grandchild

The baby is disconsolate.  I cannot know what
She is thinking.  Is she sick or simply spoiled?
All I know is that she cries, and has, it seems,
Since time began.  I can't escape her ceaseless
Yowling, can no longer tell myself that, sometime,
In the distant future, I'll retrieve some silence, peace.
Her parents said they'd be home when?  I can't
Recall.  If it's not soon, I'm apt to cry myself.





Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2022-06-10 at 20:47

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