One, two, three and down the hatch
She took a little, baby-blue pill---
Wased down with water
At exactly 9 pm
Four, five, six grueling days
Until the little glove
Won't be needed
Seven, eight, nine months
To wait for the baby
Because the pills
She took didn't
Ten, eleven, twelve hours
Of excrutiating pain
And then a child
Thriteen, fourteen, fifteen months
Until the baby learns to
Walk and talk and
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years
And now the child is grown
So it moves on to
Make its own
© Copyright 2017 Phoebe Kishbaugh. All rights reserved.
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