Baby Makes Three Sorrows

The sorrow of repetition, of vital, infantile patterns,
Of weary long mornings, o brother, another cotton square,
And the sun in tender eyes.

The sorrow of the alien, boxed in and boxing out.

The sorrow of older sisters, of sudden slapstick displays,
Rolling along the floor, clinging to mother's tired legs,
The slow shock of displacement, Claire's fierce growls of love and loss.