||email Dr. SETI ®||
Four O'Clock Feeding
To your first few whimpers I feign oblivion
But when they build into a hungry, lusty cry
I shove aside the cobwebs and the sheets
Scoop you up, negotiate the stairs
Quickly, silently, must not wake your mother.
"I am too old for this," I protest,
Grateful that I am not.
Bottle standing filled and at the ready,
Zapped for thirty seconds to breast temperature
I cradle you in my arm and you grab greedily,
Suck eagerly, loud enough to wake
If not the dead, than certainly your brothers
Who love, but never will appreciate you.
And when the bottle's drained,
The burps are burped and diaper changed
You are asleep before I set you down,
Thumb having magically found its way
To mouth. And I am spent. Two more hours
'Til the alarm jars me to consciousness.
I should sleep soundly, but do not.
Instead I sit, admiring in the half-light
First you, then your mother, soft in slumber
Who wrought this minor miracle
And brought us both to life.
Return to Off and Springing
Copyright © H. Paul Shuch, Ph.D.; Maintained by Microcomm
this page last updated 14 June 2007