My baby looks
Like Wallace Shawn
When he’s at my breast
This time is
The one time
It’s socially acceptable,
To be bald—
It’s culturally required
To be fat in order
To be lovable
Women of all ages
Want to hold my son,
Take him home
They overlook his
One-track mind, greediness.
My son, the tit man,
Incapable of focusing
On the eyes, only the breasts.
Breaking tender moments
Of Madonna and child
Serenity with the farts
I tell him, that’s a boy,
Good boy, that’s a good boy,
For every grunt, groan and gas
He emits.
In these first months
We forgive so much.
