The coffee shop is not a nursery.
Her baby is crying.
She paid a buck seventy five,
will finish her mochachinno;
not even look at the man,
pinching his nose, studying
the polish of the bar.
He wants to scream
in the baby’s face, scream until he is nipple red
scream till the worm is silent, returned to the earth.
First published in Read This #15 , 2009.