The baby is good news hollered sleeping

lightly as my wife and I gape shaken

in our briefs and nightgown, feeling something 

like two run-down strollers, decorated 

with those stony daubs of desiccated 

apple sauce, like scabs, whose dozy seeping

cargo blithely eschewed bibs. Bothered shifts

the teething kraken; floorboards wakened back

trills elicited from the monitor’s 

louvered slit gills. White noise applauds the cat

retching somewhere in the darkness over

the radiator’s fills. Now the kraken

begins to scat; curtails; begins; or’s that

just the electric fan practicing scales?