On almost deciding that it's too bad prefrontal lobotomies are out of style especially for mothers

		My God, I think, what am I doing bringing kids into this world
		of slicks where happy families feast 
		on breakfast candy, poison milk 
		and flesh of corpses, vitamin enriched,
		where Gramps, Mom, Dad and Sis and Junior reach orgasmic bliss 
		by contemplating latest models:
		where hebephrenic TV clowns swill endless glop that's good for you
		and if you don't get to it fast enough
		when Bugs and Donald momentarily  
		are finished with their sadomasochistic fun
		you get a newscaster, brisk, cheerfully detached 
		from fall-out figures,
		or a reassuring scientist,
		or a calm and prayerful leader speaking of our way of life and of the 
		mass death necessary to defend it:
		and where Mental Health says talk it over with a friend or neighbor 
		and if necessary seek professional advice....
		
		But when, after the slow flash and warmth of love I leave your arms 
		to change the boy
		and carry the wet diaper dreamily through the familiar dark,
		the world is quieted and sensible, and I am quite content to  have 
		brought children into it
		and even quite content to think of bringing more.



            	from The Realist, 1960

	
	
	
	
	

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