By Scott Landbaum
The onesy Aunt Trina sent jumped
out of its gift box and hopped over to the crib
to see if baby had come home.
Seeing the bare mattress and
neatly folded linen, onesy
slowly inched like a caterpillar
back to its box, closed the lid and pulled
the tissue tightly around.
The crib itself has started to sag
at the ends
so that the gated side rail frowns at us
while the attached mobile turns
at reduced speed,
changing its chirpy lullaby
into a dirge.
Raggedy Andy left his corner of the bay window
to sit with Ann, holding hands,
concerned and uncertain
they had been happily brought from the store
only to sit in an empty nursery.
I separated them a few times
before I understood.
I heard the booties pacing back and forth.
Sometimes I’ll stay in the hallway
and quietly match their steps,
taking comfort in the shared rhythm.
Eventually though I’ll open the door
to make them stop, pick them up
and give them a few gentle pats
before putting them back
in the drawer.
Honestly we came to enjoy it, to
relish the concern of objects for our baby.
It always seemed that we were the ones
who felt better
after reassuring the ruffled blanky.
But they grow more anxious
as time goes by.
The wooden pull train rocks
back and forth in the toy chest, banging
against the inside walls. I’ve found
dents in the chest and some scratches
on the train. I put pillows in there
to ease its pain.
Worse now the house grows restless.
The closet door in our bedroom will not
stay closed, refusing to cover the door jam
I painted white
to record our child’s height.
After walking into it for the third time
we hammered out the pins
and took the door off its hinges, afraid
that this was just the first sign
that we are all
In the kitchen floor some bumps are growing
where the linoleum searches
for the spilled milk
that hasn’t been spilled.
Our baby better come home soon.
Here's a link of other poems this author has written (they are beautiful!) http://www.prematurepoems.com/frames%20page.htm