Adults are immature, childish
They like making faces at me
Goggling at me and hoping
That maybe I might concede
And giggle at their eccentricities
What attention seeking!
They would offer me chocolates
Toys and promises but
When I cry, gurgle, spit and burp
Instead of trying to listen
They would run around and look for more
High pitched adults who would
Look at me with soppy expressions
And speak in a ridiculous tone
Why is it baby talk?
It is neither understandable to me, a baby
Nor does it sound anything like me
And yet they plough to make me
Ape their coloured broken babble
The faces they make are ridiculous
Such a pity, that I might grow up to do the same
Looking at a baby like me and
Like them, play a game of peekaboo
Hoping vainly to hide their maturity
It must be shameful to know
That never would they be able
To see life as I do now
In colours not faded with time
And with untarnished perceptions
Like a new T.V. set, tuned in
And so they would hide their old eyes
Behind their weary hands
And playfully pretend to hide
In plain sight, their betrayal to
Pure unadulterated flights of fancy
I would widen my eyes playing their own game
And pretend to wonder at their ostrich escape
Then suddenly, their hands would part
And I would clap my hands and laugh
Seeing that yes, it’s true, eyes that are old
Can seldom hide well under the rubble of the world
Maybe that is the point of this charade
An unintended early lesson
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