the baby

your friend has a baby
and you go see her.
it's round headed
and pink like a balloon
without a string.
it smells like oatmeal.
when she cries her face
turns old,
it pinches everything
together, the blue
eyes like colored
lights, the tiny nose,
the red ears flushed.
she picks it up
and holds it in her arms.
swinging it gently back
and forth. she sings
to it, moving her
shoulders to mary
had a little lamb.
would you like to
hold her, she says,
pushing the baby towards
you. it's squirming like
it's trying to get out
of being a baby. i would,
you say, but i might
drop her, plus
i'm double parked
out front. i have
to get going before
i'm towed. maybe
next time.