She ties them up in woolen blankets,
Baby pinks and powder blues,
With bows around their tiny heads
As they sleep through flashing lights
And shutters clicking in the millions,
Parents standing proudly to the side.
She’s maybe only two weeks old,
Already loved enough for them
To spend that money on those shots
That sit in albums til she’s 21.
But the lady with the camera
Tries each month to have her own,
And each month when dreams are dashed
She cries in pain in bathroom stalls,
Drying tears to meet another pair
Proudly holding baby girl,
The life she wants with all her soul,
The dream she hides each day at work
With smiles and coos and coochy-goos
To mask the hurt inside.