Unborn beer mat baby

She left the table and on a nail-scratched beer mat I found

her transcribed thought-doodle scribbled in unsharpened pencil.

Between her and I stood the sole distraction of her days,

the premature infant of fantasy I did not know.

I studied the etching and loved their little outstretched limbs;

the innocent dependency I promised to protect.

I thought of gender and beginnings and choosing a name:

Aaron, Benjamin, Christina, David, Evangeline.

Beneath their shoeless feet I scribbled my two favourites,

sparing space for the syllables we would choose in the end.

She returned and I slid the mat to the tip of her thumb,

and reading it she said, “Funny, I was thinking the same.”

-end-

all words are mine. if you enjoyed the piece, let me know.

Gene Murphy Writer