Baby Haiku

Grunts pierce the silence,
Ahhhh. Gahhhhhh! We brace for the onslaught,
But are spared, this time.

In throes of despair,
Miniature legs kick, left – right,
Like engine pistons.

Was that a real smile?
Or just some indigestion,
What makes you happy?

When you’re fast asleep,
Of ample breasts do you dream?
What thoughts make you scream?

When you’re being held,
And gaze up into our eyes,
Utter helplessness.

You like being changed,
It’s no fun to sit in poo,
While vile juices stew.

Your very small hands,
Clench tighter than rubber bands,
Onto stick-fingers.

We’ve but washed you twice,
So how do you smell so nice?
Baby pheromones?

Who controls your arms?
Because you sure as hell don’t.
Flail, wounded spider.

I wish we could talk,
You’d communicate your woes,
I’d say, “I love you.”