Why There Aren't More Poems About Toddlers
By Barbara Louise Ungar
Where’s the paper? Where
are all the pens? Where are my
scrawled ideas for poems?
Where has my dream journal fled?
The baby eats erasers and draws
on walls, scribbles in library books,
loses pen caps, scatters scratch
paper, flushes pencils
to catch paper till the toilet chokes
after you’ve dumped a diaper in
(a repeating dream you no longer bother to analyze).
Because the naked two-year-old
squealing under your bed
has the plunger; because while you shower
he microwaves potholders, salts the teapot,
peppers the sofa, pours milk on rugs;
because he’s magnetized by knives
scissors water & electricity.
Because, with luck, he will leave
for school and break your heart.
And still you’ll wonder, where
did it all go?
From The Origin of the Milky Way.