POETRY CORNER

​There’s a baby on my bosom
And he bounces to and fro.
Like a trampolin-ing gymnast
He is always on the go.

He can’t make a decision
On which one he likes best.
He just enjoys the choices
As he suckles at my chest.

The strange thing is I’m 80
So I no longer lactate.
He’s lucky if he sucks out dust.
His thirst, he’ll never sate.

I cannot bear to stop him.
It’s his one eternal joy.
Just suckling on my bosom:
My malnourished dying boy.