Kilo, please

There's this family I know
who stockpile infants.
They keep from Anna to Joe
all boxed up in front

of the king-sized-bed.
From Kevin to Zara are loose
as cauliflowers in the garden shed.
Couples whizz the kids up in a juicer

with banana and ginseng
as a pick-me-up. It helps stem
the urge to start pinching
babies from prams, plucked like gems

from the velvet of a safety deposit box.
The family hold live triplet birth shows
in the kitchen. It keeps stocks
up and brings in a little extra dough.

Brand-new babies come wrapped
in a cloak called a vernix.
The spectating couples clap
as the babies disrobe to music.

The new-borns throw the placenta
to the baying, barren crowd. Fists
fly, hair is yanked like rock concert
fans aching, tearing for the set-list.