Babies do strange things,
I was once one too,
And I’d spend my days, I’m told,
Apparently talking to you.
I’ll be very honest,
I don’t remember a thing,
I don’t remember what I said,
And I don’t remember you.
Were you brown with gold embellish?
Or a classy, elegant white?
Did you clatter when you moved?
Or spin noiselessly all night?
Did we talk of fun and games?
Did we laugh and joke?
Or were we a relatively serious pair?
Did we often get bored?
I’m told we’d talk animatedly,
And laugh through days and nights,
Now, I’ve got so many ‘friends’,
Sometimes I can’t sleep right.
Now, like many others, I’m out,
To find my ‘true’ friends,
So, on this fifth day of August,
I hope to find you well!
To read more by the poet of Ode to the Ceiling Fan in My Childhood Home. click here
To read more from Privy Poet’ Society, click here.