Baby’s eating ink again –
a writer’s born every day –
Me? I’m nibbling paper,
with nothing much to say

She’s spitting words and polka dots,
dangling metaphors on air,
while all the while, I’m watching,
hoping, without a word to spare

She drifts asleep, as dreamers do,
to draft a skein of tale,
and all I do is wander her,
ponder poems inside this shell