your mother is concerned
as to why
the torrent of poems
written about you
have halted.
she asked if I still love
my family,
leading me down a path of
wondering why
the tap has run dry.
I realized the root of the problem
is the fact you do
a whole lot of nothing.
sure,
you fill your diaper,
you practice using your vocal chords,
you ensure your tear ducts are operational
(you're insistent on that one)
just the other day you learned
to roll over,
but that's nothing more
than a dog trick.
you drool on your face
your clothes
your toys
you drool, well, everywhere.
you hog mommy's breasts,
keeping them all to yourself
and I never even mention it.
like I said,
a whole lot of nothing.
barring the one exception
when I come home from the nine to five
and your eyes recognize me,
leading you to pop your mouth wide open
in the shape of joy
you see me, you know who I am
now that,
that's
a whole lot of something.