The Baby is Eating All the Poetry

The baby is eating all the poetry

Sucking out milk and marrow,

blood and ambition

with each gluttonous pull.

He is peach, dimpled tentacles that

draw out the clutter of words,

the juicy rhythms born of memory and electricity,

even the dark ones.

When inspiration dares to replenish at night,

he kicks it away with dough roll thighs

screams at it until it dissipates,

batting blameless eyelashes at it in the dark.

The baby is eating all the poetry,

leaving only wordless, foggy space,

the hypnotic dance between innate need and limitless offering,

and a colorless, wistful hum

that offers nothing in the way of anything

that could be put to paper.