BABY

THE DEMENTED ARTILLERY VETERAN,

WITH A ROTTEN-TOOTHED GRIMACE THAT SCARES

EVEN HIS OWN GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN, WEARS

PARTS OF DIFFERENT UNIFORMS, WITH A

CONFEDERATE FLAG TIED AROUND HIS NECK

AS A BIB, A KALEIDOSCOPIC COLLAGE

OF DRIED GRAVY, SPAGHETTI SAUCE, EGG YOLK, DROOL,

AND DRIPPINGS FROM A THOUSAND MEALS. HE ROCKS

IN A CREAKING ANTIQUE, HIS ONE SKINNY LEG

WORKING LIKE A WELL-WORN WELL-PUMP HANDLE.

WHEN A THROWN FOLDED NEWSPAPER LANDS

ON THE PORCH NEAR HIS FOOT, HE REACHES DOWN

IN PAIN AND PALSY, AND LIFTS IT TO HIS BREAST,

CRADLES IT IN THE THIN SPINDLES OF HIS ARMS,

LIKE A SUCKLING BABY, HOLDING IT TIGHT

AS IF TO SQUEEZE INTO IT WHATEVER LIFE

IS LEFT OF HIS OWN. HE HUMS AND MUMBLES

BITS OF NURSERY RHYMES AND OLD LULLABIES.

HE PRESSES IT AGAINST HIS TEAR-DAMPENED CHEEK.

OH, MY CHRIST, I SWEAR I COULD HEAR LOVE

CRASHING THROUGH MADNESS. THEN HIS GRANDSON

GRABS AND OPENS IT, TO READ OF WAR,

DISEASE, RAPE, ARSON, MURDER, DEATH, AND HATE,

WHILE THE OLD MAN'S BEARD ABSORBS HIS TEARS.