Regular Poem: Happier Birthday

12 Apr

You know on TV
when a woman gives birth
and they cut to the baby
and it’s a two-month-old
and the mother isnt’t splotchy
and the father is all glowing and prepared and at peace?

Apparently it doesn’t just happen
on TV.

That’s them.
The baby is gigantic,
and her cry
is imperious
like she was practicing in the mirror
in the womb,
already singing along to
’80s Patti LuPone,
slinging scarves over her neck
quoting Miranda Priestly.

I’ll be ready
to arm wrestle
for the right to be her best friend.
I’ve been boxing in my garage, you know.
Oh, and don’t worry,
I bought the cigars
this time.

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