Baby

Baby’s bottle, moist dummy.
The fat toddler looks my way, thoughtfully confused, masticating on a biscuit.
Then he picks up the bottle and swigs like an old drunk.
His thirst sated, he mewls, and throws the bottle to the ground. The irrelevance at the next table picks it up.
But baby’s lost interest: his work is done. It’s all going to plan. It’s tough, being the rightful centre of the Universe.

Me? I also stand at the cosmos’ heart. From me, everything expands outwards: this pen, that café, those people, you. This poem is me, too, for what it’s worth: I, I, I.
But unlike baby, I’m conscious of this, and with consciousness comes guilt.

Baby looks over and checks me out, chocolate crusting around his lips. He smacks his tongue thoughtfully. And we make eye contact.
We break.
We reconnect.
When I’m not looking, the little shit’s probably writing a poem about me.