Ode to the Stroller We Bought from Facebook

At the football game I whisper They don’t know

how cool my stroller is to my husband as the girls

trot past us up the hill, their orange crop tops

flashing bright above their so-called mom jeans—

the stroller gifted by divine algorithm, named

for the nursery rhyme Mama’s gonna buy you

a mockingbird. Well, Mama fucking did,

and it is glorious: brown leather, cupholders,

teal seat, sun shield for your seashell skin.

You scrunch your brows at the light, and my body

moves to cover you. The adjustable seat promises

to grow with you. If I could, I would buy all

birds for your amusement: red-shouldered hawk,

greed-soaked hummingbird nipping flowers,

crabby vultures hopping in the street. I point

out geese to you—Look August, where do you think

they are going? I want to know your consciousness,

how you see a goose, what makes you laugh

at the dog when he rolls in grass. I want

to feed you forever—I finally see why

my friend let her three-year-old run up to her

in public and lift her shirt like pulling plastic

off a juice box: the white bird whistling

through my glands is a song only the two of us own.