Anne Fleming

Babies Over 40

Another in the series, in which I make up poems for the titles of articles that thinks might by me.

Babies Over 40

They’re bald.
The boys. The girls’ hair is just thinning.
They’re always crying about this and that, you can’t even tell what
they’re crying about. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I need a change.
Their driver’s licenses have expired.
They fall asleep on long drives. It’s the only way you can get them to sleep sometimes. At night they lie awake. Their sighs shake the bed.
They can’t see anything closer than end of their arms.
They have gas.
Don’t shake them, no matter how mad you are. Walk away and count to ten.
What are they crying about? Who knows. It doesn’t matter. Walk away and count the miles. One. Two. Three. Four. Miles are longer than kilometres. Six. Seven.
At home, they weep and lace their shoes. They run past you at mile nine, crying. They are training for a marathon. Their tears are not related.


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