On Babysitting

Oh, the baby cries.
Oh, how she cries!
She stands up in her crib, stretches
her little arms, grabs
onto my shirt with both hands;
I am guilty of the sin of being the wrong lady,
the wrong lady entirely.
The baby flops down
despondently
within four padded walls.
"Cease your futile lamentation," I say.
She does not. Misery
was never so adorable.
"I am just going to blog about you anyway.
And pet Mama's cats, and look in her
bathroom cabinets, and fall asleep reading
Breastfeeding for Dummies."
Oh, the baby cries.