Musings by The Poet Loriet
Pitter Patter
The fetal monitor
beats
out a rhythym.
But then, you march
to a different drummer's beat,
don't you?
You roll your eyes
as if to say,
"How much longer?"
Aren't you just dying
for your next hit
of cocaine?
Nervously, you say,
"Hey, y'all know
I ain't keeping this kid."
You deliver him
without emotion,
silent and stoic.
During the wheelchair ride
to your room,
you stare straight ahead--
blank eyes unseeing,
seemingly unfeeling,
too far gone
in your world,
your haze
of drugs
to even look back...
oblivious
to the lively little feet
kicking
so plainly
for all to see
on the other side
of the nursery window.
Lori Beal
beats
out a rhythym.
But then, you march
to a different drummer's beat,
don't you?
You roll your eyes
as if to say,
"How much longer?"
Aren't you just dying
for your next hit
of cocaine?
Nervously, you say,
"Hey, y'all know
I ain't keeping this kid."
You deliver him
without emotion,
silent and stoic.
During the wheelchair ride
to your room,
you stare straight ahead--
blank eyes unseeing,
seemingly unfeeling,
too far gone
in your world,
your haze
of drugs
to even look back...
oblivious
to the lively little feet
kicking
so plainly
for all to see
on the other side
of the nursery window.
Lori Beal
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Pitter Patter
Pitter Patter
