In the Highchair of My Life

GiaB writing prompt #2–23 — Childhood

Even as a baby strapped into a highchair,
I was a writer with a keen mind,
looking around the 1950s kitchen,
figuring out what story I would tell,
as soon as someone taught me English

Should I write a story about my parents
trying to mold me into a person,
spoonfeeding me Gerber’s baby food?
Or should I do an experiential piece,
what it’s like trying to stand upright
from a crawl?

In my formative years, I valued
the soft green carpet in the living room;
I drank a warm bottle of milk
with two hands, dreaming of the day
when I could twist the cap off a Coke,
or share a cold one with Dad

Being a baby is about hope,
about progress and growth,
seeing people’s smiling faces
and deciding which one to trust

I was amused by strangers making me laugh,
sitting in a highchair with a load in my pants,
and waiting for a change to occur —
momma with a fresh new diaper,
her soft clean hands applying the powder

I kept telling myself it won’t be much longer
before I could speak like everyone else,
put pen to paper — formulate plot and character
and write like Hemingway or Sylvia Plath.

Here’s another poem by Mark Tulin:

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