The newly born emerges in innocence.
A new life’s journey begins soon.
But as I gaze upon him I see not an angel.
I see a prune.

The countenance is a shriveled, purple, wrinkly mass.
The pate is itself crowned with all manner of irregular ridges and bumps.
And I see neither heavenly nor angelic forms
when the child spews forth his
fecal lumps.

Others stare and proclaim that he has his Mother’s eyes
as they dote and fawn in the nursery room,
but I know that they self-deceive!
Their vision stems from knowing he is
from Mommy’s womb.

Others smile and glow and proudly proclaim to all
that “Little Timmy” has Daddy’s firm, strong, manly chin!
But again I know they just fool themselves.
For their unconscious knows where Daddy’s
“Little Dicky” has been!

With my heart I shall pray for the parent’s happiness,
With my soul I shall beg that both have great joy,
With my mind I shall plead for the child’s perfect health
regardless if it be a girl
or a boy.

But never shall I utter an ‘ooooo!’ or an ‘ahhhhh!’
nor proclaim “How sweet!” “How adorable!” or “How cute!”
Why should I if the child really resembles
a wrinkled, smelly, piece
of fruit?

(Ooops. There goes the baby lover’s vote.)