I see a baby in a stroller
who looks like he will grow up
to think like Woody Allen –
if he doesn’t already.
Sagging jowls before the age
of one, and eyes that say
it is all too much trouble
to care about.
I picture a kind of Borscht Belt
humor about poopy diapers,
a two-foot world view
taking Seuss sardonically.
His mother does not seem to know,
pushing him about as she shops for books,
he is probably ridiculing her in his head
for what she is reading.