
Hey, Baby
I deal with my inner baby
differently than Donald Trump
deals with his.
The baby I used to be
doesn’t dictate behavior,
but resides in my heart
tight behind compartment doors,
napping most of the time while we move
in tandem, forever building from
what imprinted first onto our clean slate,
building our adult complexity far past
stuff we figured out about the world
with tiny fingers fumbling toward things
we deciphered first by mouth.
Pouts and tantrums
may threaten inside me now
when grown-up wounds split open to bitter air,
and angry tears roil.
But the baby I was
isn’t allowed to appear in plain sight
any more than the untempered worldview
of self-centered babyhood
that I outgrew so long ago.
My inner baby is here with me always,
perpetually young
and tender of mind,
but I thank my stars every day
that I am the one in control.

