It keeps on blooming in the big green pot:
pink bonnet, fat white lip, yellow eye.
An ugly baby
if that’s what you pictured in the stroller
of line two. I can’t pretend
this is not a poem. We all know it is
unwise to hang on too long
to innocence. It’s a kind of arrested development
say fathers and psychologists
(also a favorite TV show, cancelled—
too smart, too quirky—
but we have it on DVD, because, yes!—
I grew up, my reproductive organs functioned,
and I have a family that watches TV….
Remember the ugly baby
episode on Seinfeld, the show about nothing?
Now, be kind. Consider the poem’s parenthetical emptiness
and what it might possibly mean.)