when we babysit, Trump disappears for a little while

She is seventeen months

her life in months

and when I pick her up

from her daycare center

she runs so fast up

the hill  runs and runs

I have to run too

a child who is going somewhere

up that hill

even over a fence how does she

know how to climb over

she just does

talking the whole time

although most of the words

are hers not mine

except a few like shoes.

She likes shoes. A few days

ago when I did not go

in the right direction

she said, clear as a bell

waving the appropriate finger

No. Naughty.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

4 Comments

  1. when we babysit reminded me of my then one and a half-year-old son Stefan who, while sitting in a high chair as we ate at a local restaurant, turned to a fellow diner, a largish, burly, surly guy about to light a cigarette . . . Stefan pointed right at him and told him in a clear, reprimanding voice, “NO SMOKING!”

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