The baby billboard has half a head.
It's been split crown to chin, but there's a whole
litany of other problems around here.
Once bright tints have been stripped, from the tilted
tip-top of that broken oval where
painted features last played, all the way down
to his unaccountably pink piggy toes.
What's left for him is a woody gray
crawl to photo-free finishes above
misspelled boasts on an auto parts sign.
He's lost his golden curl, and toothless smile.
There's not a tearless blue eye left to watch
over faded bricks in need of tuckpointing.
They've even stolen his gurgled words,
which may have cooed of comfy diapers,
or of daycare safe, cheap and nearby.
The baby billboard has half a head, and
that's not a good thing in this neighborhood
losing its appetite for the topless
of all ages, and toddlers on the prowl.
I have only half a mind to warn him.