at 43 weeks gestation she

stuffed herself into a taxi in the

cold dead of a January morning with

the determination and quiet resolve of

a newly designated mother

after 27 hours of pacing he

marveled at the 5 pound newness of

her perfect fit in his hands what

wonder is this he asked quietly

I was turned and the doctor

slapped my behind, it is said

the cry rattled

beds of the dead nearly

6 flights below no one has

underestimated me since

About this Poem:  My mother is gonna laugh and shake her head when she reads this and say, “You sure do tell a good story. I should have named you Poetic License.” But I really was born late.