Delivery

Delivery

This baby in the bath is seconds old, couldn't wait. Spitting whoops
and shouts, having water-chuted into life.

Not for her the dull scratch and scour of a plastic advocado 70's
bathroom suite. She bawls for white enamel - slapping her safe. A curvy
roll-top with towering taps that deserve to be called faucets.
She chose this Edwardian splendour for her entrance. Its polish
reflecting us, crowding extras, drenched in unexpected tears.

And as she milks the applause, in the corner - among the gush of chaos
- I see a green hippo sponge that soaks and bobs, slowly staining red.
And thoughts of this softness stop me crying. Leave me silent.