a whole lot of, a poem

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.

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