It’s hard to pay attention to such a solemn thing as verb tenses
when the baby is drooling over herself and smiling at you.

how much does our poetry differ from baby babbles, though?
are we not just blowing raspberries of tone and meter and rhyme

out to each other, waiting for a response
to affirm what is felt?

there is a poetry to living that can’t be grasped in words,
but can be seen in the baby’s dark eyes.

does she hear the poetry in the cadence of her mother’s voice?
do we hear the poetry in the enjambment of her laugh?

our office floor offering of fellowship
was broadened in the language of poetry tonight.