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.