A baby calls out from each room.
Chubby cheeks, it's in the bag,
I know ten bright-eyed ways to start a breakfast.
Borrowed and blue,
pregnant as a 19th century hot air balloon,
no longer just a pretty face,
your butter colored wife.
Right here. This longing
ahum. For this house,
we used all the wood
from the broken deer blind
the drunken farmer had knocked down.
I identified with something for so long
I thought was me, but was youth instead.
I like this farm
life it's not permanent.