BYOB(aby)

A baby in a bar?
He drinks my milk
as I drink from a pint of
stout, porter, IPA,
or that delicious pumpkin lambic
brewed in upstate New York.
They say, after all, that hops and oats
aid a mother’s milk production.
Hey, that kid got ID?
Do I?
Did anyone check to see
if this girl is old enough
for motherhood?
Twenty-five and childless,
now twenty-six and
in charge of her own life plus that of another.
Men at the bar eye with envy
my husband’s wife and child.
“I wish my wife…” their gazes say
as I free my breast
and feed my child
while calling for another round
and watching the late afternoon light
set the glasses aglow.
A baby in a bar.
We tell people it’s
his Irish and Italian bloodlines –
brought to pubs from birth,
drinking watered down wine from childhood –
that permit his presence here,
but maybe it’s just that
we don’t think our lives ought to be over
yet.
He dozes off,
mid-suckle,
as we chat with regulars
and tip liberally our favorite bartender.
A baby in a bar.
No ID necessary.

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