Monday, February 9, 2009

Feverish Gibberish

In the doctor's office
the same old calender hangs
with the baby holding a steth.
It warps in the wind
and the baby winks at
the unhealthy me.

I go inside and check
the doctor's pulse
and ask him
why hasn't the baby grown?
He asks me to lie down and says
I am alright. Perfectly alright.
He hands me a slip carefully
like the cheating paper in an exam.

I take quick steps towards the door as the baby
crawls out of the calender and tries
to grab my neck with the elongating
cord. I remember his head.
Too big for his body.

I reach the drug store and the candies
smile at me but the lady is irksome
as I unwrap one in my mouth without asking.
Mom is paying the shop keeper with silver coins
and the reflection is hurting my eyes.

We finally walk home in the hot sun
and then I lie down. There is a ruckus all
around me with people carrying saws
and I make music with cluttering teeth.

Suddenly there is a chill on my head
and the baby goes back
to the fluttering calender and
the saws are powdered to dust.

The receipt flies high in the breeze
and makes its way into her hands.