I could feel her breath behind me,

Standing too close,

In line at the post office,

Had she not heard the song,

By the Police?

She should take a few steps back surely,

I thought to myself,



But then I heard the sound,

That came from the stroller,

A gurgley-goop,

A little girl’s innocent laughter,

Oh, so undeniably cute!


I looked down at the carriage,

And back at the lady,

I thought to myself,


It was a small star-studded doggy or kitty,

Or even a platypus baby,

Or maybe I was just going crazy,


She was surely the mother,

Of whatever she was hiding,

Under that cover,

Her shoes were so pricey,

Her hair smelled like cotton candy and was bouncy,

And Mama looked like she knew,

Every plastic surgeon,

West of Hollywood,


But there it went again,

That harrowing sound,

Everyone else in line,

Had on the same confusing frown,

All of us wondering,

How angry the little doll must be,

Being pushed around in that cart,

By her pissed off mommy through this tinsel town,


Mama finally reached down,

And picked up the culprit,

The little perfect clown,

Dressed in Ferragamo,

From little cute toe to ribboned crown,


But no one was smiling,

When we saw it’s face,

It was an image from my mind,

I’ll never be able to erase,


Don’t get me wrong,

This was a fully in-tact baby and mom,

But something, somewhere must have gone,

Very, very wrong,


It was not white or black or even brown,

It was just angry at having to be around,

Now giggling and screaming and laughing at me,

With an evil saber-toothed frown,

Damn woman,

How many doctors did it take,

To turn your face around?


“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

She said to me with her silicon smile,

And without hesitation I replied,

“No, not gorgeous, but maybe..”

I had to take the time to think a while…


“Pretty” or “guapicita”

Were certainly not the words,

I had in my mind, lady,

When I looked at the mug,

Of your damn ugly baby,


I mean if she had on a mask,

Or some face-paint, then maybe,

But I really can’t lie,

And surely it’s not likely,

That your baby,

Will grow up and turn into,

A pretty lady,


“I’m sorry but that’s not the case.”

“And why is that?” she smirked,

“Your baby,

Doesn’t even have your face!”

And I couldn’t help but hear a few chuckles,

From the innocent bystanders,

Who had all hung their heads in disgrace,


And then the lady,

And her ugly annoying 1920’s-faced baby,

Walked out without their stroller,

Out to the curb,

Where they both perched a big holiday broomstick,

And rode off past Santa and his sleigh,

Into the land of Ugly Babies and Plastic Moms,

Up, up and away…



(Image not property of the Author)

©opyright 2015 Dilara Esengil, All Rights Reserved

Categories: Uncategorized

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