Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
The boy complained,
“Why is everyone just looking at him?
He doesn’t do anything
except cry and sleep.”
“You forgot poop. He also poops,” his father said.
“He’s new, that’s all.
He’ll get more interesting,” his mother said.
“Would you like to hold him?” his dad asked
ignoring the small intake of breath from the bed.
The slender shoulder shrugged.
The boy sat back in the vinyl chair
and accepted the bundle from the nurse.
A yawn and a tiny arm escaped the blanket.
“I wanted a dog. But I guess you’ll do.”
The boy complained,
“Why is everyone just looking at him?
He doesn’t do anything
except cry and sleep.”
“You forgot poop. He also poops,” his father said.
“He’s new, that’s all.
He’ll get more interesting,” his mother said.
“Would you like to hold him?” his dad asked
ignoring the small intake of breath from the bed.
The slender shoulder shrugged.
The boy sat back in the vinyl chair
and accepted the bundle from the nurse.
A yawn and a tiny arm escaped the blanket.
“I wanted a dog. But I guess you’ll do.”
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It’s tough being a big brother.
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Like the librarian
in a dowdy dress
and horn-rimmed glasses
things that look dull
can be quite exciting,
once you peel
away her harsh
exterior.
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