This baby circumnavigates a rust-colored rug
pausing to tear free a fray apparent exclusively
at average baby height but after failing many times

matches the stare of a stranger in a rain jacket
and, urgently, this baby begins to smile
perhaps because the stranger smiles reflexively

the smile one smiles when observing this baby
as well as other babies, or perhaps because outside
three deer zip along causing this baby to think,

arms rising then falling then spinning, Why
at this very moment, am I so inundated with joy?—
either way, it seems I’m getting distracted

because what I want to tell you about is what
happens after, as upon approaching the car, I
notice my keys are missing so I dash back

to the party and trip on a rogue shagbark branch
doing that thing where I 180 and make a face
of casual disapproval that implies I could not possibly

be the fool here... right? The door opens. The baby is
using my keys to engrave the wood floor with shapes
never imagined until that moment, the entire universe

barreling us toward exhaustion and
it makes sense then: babies suddenly crying, babies
growing into older versions of themselves and crying more.

` ` ` ` `
An earlier version of this poem was published in Issue 7 of Outlook Springs.