© -MFB III
Miscarriage holds no baby,
its carriage just sits
in the closet upstairs
gathering dust and cobwebs.
Downstairs a mother-not-to-be
sits sipping tea, her drawn face
a mask of sorrow, a Salvador Dollie,
but with no infant to go with it.
The nursery is a bright place
but the curtains are drawn,
and the shadows cast are longer
then the tomb just down the street,
where tiny Ruth Anne lies.
Dad is seldom home,
a barstool is his recliner now,
his wife can't have anything
fill that void so near her womb
so he drinks away the hardness
left by the softness fate stole.
Time ticks, but no one ever tocks
about the baby that wasn't,
in society one just doesn't
but the awful grieving
goes on unrelieved
in many lace curtain kitchens
and against many tiny crib blankets
all across the world at large,
less one very small,
in the wee hours of the mourn.
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