Feeding the Baby

The house was old, as the best ones are And shabby beyond quaintness The rent was low because the kitchen walls Didn’t go all the way to the ceiling Still it had its charm, the young amused Partied on the pounded dirt slopes of the side Yard and rising above it all the tower A radio tower, a metal skeleton Wrapped in thick snaky black wires But still you could not touch Not tell even those you love best The words, the words that radio times forgot.

Anger As if not saying the words were enough To make a civil discourse. Angry bees behind the lips loud enough to wake the babies. Christ, all those babies. Lying row upon row, below the house And you lost in milkless wandering, So much hunger behind pursed lips. Still, not a loud word between you two. And each autumn, the withering.