My Pet Baby

My mother told me the worst thing about being

alone is having no one to give the news.

Her hair is blonde going green. She has a Botox cheek bruise.

But I have My Pet Baby. I say, “So, So-n-So finally went to rehab, Baby,”

and he says, “Oh, really? Good for him or her.”

I squeeze him and it’s as nice as a yawn, or a good shiver.

A third-rate master’s student, a sack of muscles, beer-swollen,

walks to campus with a mini-box of Sunmaid raisins.

Imagine him earlier in the snack aisle, thinking hard, making a decision,

acting natural now as he flips the little lid with fumbly fingers.

When I come home and tell Baby, he knows that,

somehow, there’s never been anything sadder.

Baby feels like looking at puppies on adoptapet.com.

Baby feels like watching Mad Men on Netflix forever.