Shit

You can't
fake having a kid which
renders parenting an exclusive
club with membership
involving a familiar anecdote, among other
terms, that they all tell to
varying degrees to
relate, to
disgust, to
embarrass.

They tell how
they strolled into
the nursery one day to
find their precious angel's
handprints strewn across
the wall like a chain
of islands bridged
together by the streaks
in between.  The story's quite mundane
until you learn that
the diaper functioned
as the little artist's
palette.

I laugh
unfazed and reply,
"Sounds like writing
a poem."