Baby Sitting I am sitting in the wrong room listeningFor the wrong baby. I don’t loveThis baby. She is sleeping a snufflyRoseate, bubbling sleep; she is fair;She is a perfectly acceptable child.I am afraid of her. If she wakesShe will hate me. She will shoutHer hot midnight rage, her noseWill stream disgustingly and the perfume Of her breath will fail to enchant me. To her I will represent absoluteAbandonment. For her it will be worseThan for the lover cold in lonelySheets; worse than for the woman who waitsA moment to collect her dignityBeside the bleached bone in the terminal ward.As she rises sobbing from the monstrous landStretching for milk–familiar comforting,She will find me and between us twoIt will not come. It will not come.