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.


  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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