The Crib

The Crib

A dismantled crib leans against the curb

waiting to be taken away

with the trash.

Worn out and dated,

it speaks of a season past.

The truck comes to carry it away,

taking with it

wakeful nights,

holding heartbeat close,

weathered skin against new

feather hair and infant smell,

and whispered dreams.

“Hold on!”

The mother cries,

as she runs in her bathrobe to stop the truck,

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Unable to hear her,

They drive on.