Baby

Baby

Oh baby, I love you so much

that I call you baby

even though you’re forty-one

years old, wait, I mean forty-two,

but baby, oh Baby, you’re my

exhumation, my unmitigated intubation,

my excoriating ablution

and the garnishment of all my mortal wages,

my silver salver and my radish dish.

There’s some other stuff you are,

Baby, and only some of it has names!

I’ve been exculpated, by you, for sure,

and more than once, as you well know,

for this is love in which we are

amalgamated nevermore to become risibly

insinuated in our alloyship. Battlements

Will crumble, etcetera, Baby, and whatnot

until infinity and infinity double meet

at the corner of You and Me Streets

in a town called, say, Heartburg or Heartsylvania,

Or Babyville, because you’re my baby,

and probably if there was that town,

you’d be mayor, Baby, and Baby Baby,

you could appoint me Poet

Laughing Laureate.