He didn't take the pacifier; didn't suckle
at breast. Between piercing cries
his eyes were squeezed tight
as if he didn't like my face.
I almost shouted:
Shut up, and let me count your breath.
Wasn't I harassed enough with adults' ward
where fat ladies' girths didn't help me
locate their kidneys and some fussy
gentlemen were embarrassed
to expose their body parts?
I had always dreamt of pediatrics;
yearned to be with tiny, angelic babies
who slept between feeds, needed
just a bit of and cooing cuddling.
Avoiding parent's stares I quickly analyzed.
The baby wasn't blue ' wasn't pale.
He wasn't cold ' not feverish.
Nor did he convulse.
Relieved, I turn to haggard parents
with my first diagnosis of the day:
A cry-baby; he needs to be burped.