Marching Orders

Your picture fixed to the fridge
With a magnet from the dentist
Showing you during
The twenty week scan
The ultrasound shining down
Like a reading lamp
On the profile
Of your skull
Jaw
Nubs of teeth
Feet flung out
At the end of tiny tibia
Joy, rage... stretching?

We've been staring so long
At that picture of you
We're wondering if you're real.

And do you know
Your lease on the womb
is about to expire?
Nine months nearly up
And if you're not out shortly
We will commence the process
of eviction.
(Hot curry, hot sex)

So,
Do the grown up thing
Pay the piper
Face the music
It's time to cut the chord.

Little one.