Standing inside Raley’s aisle 2 and in a rut
Agonizing which baby wipe will grace her toddler’s butt.
Her mind is racing madly, she’s afraid that is will crash
Praying by the time’s she done; her son won’t have a rash
Hypo-allergenic nonsense, her thoughts will entertain,
Powder soft, baby fresh, quilted or just plain
By the pack or in a stack, with a bear upon the box,
Whose addle-brained inventor she would love to give the pox
Lids that will not open do you pull or do you push?
All this aggravation over such a little tush!
Her son is standing in the cart, with his imposing voice,
Telling her EXACTLY which box would be his choice.
As a crowd is gathering she grabs one in blind fear,
and wheels away the red faced boy whose tantrum is quite near.
That woman with the screaming child could easily be me,
With one thing down,
A solid frown,
Heading to aisle three
Copyright Lorna Moorhead
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