19. Trying on Some "Baby Pants"

A few re-workings of last week's free entry poem.
The original:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive across town for a friend
To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9.
His wife yells from under wet hair
Belt unbuckled
“Justin!”
He’s down in the office
And I sit—collapse on the new couch
Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be.
Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection.
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now.
Can’t put them on, but knows
They go
On his baby legs.
And there I am
With my friend’s family
On a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth
Hoists and struggles
To pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest
My blue, down vest.
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California
Is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys
The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk
What have I missed?


Basically a syllabic, I guess. Most lines have five, but I didn't want to change the actual poem too much, and didn't want to seperate words, so some are four or six. Some much-needed punctuation as well as being wrangled into quatrains:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive
across town for a
friend. To Justin’s house
on a Saturday

at nine. His wife yells,
from under wet hair,
belt unbuckled, “Justin!”
He’s down in the

office. And I sit—
collapse on the new
Couch--custom made, brown
and squarer than a

couch should be. Justin’s
baby produces
baby pants for my
inspection. I am

impressed, he can
find his own pants now;
Can’t put them on, but
knows they go on his

baby legs. And there
I am, with my friend’s
Family, on a
weekend morning, the

mother holds an
envelope in her
teeth, hoists and struggles
to pant her boy. I’m

slouching and hot in
my vest, my blue, down
vest; thinking today
was colder than it

is; forgetting that
fall in California
is like summer back
home. Plastic diapers

pack the thighs of tiny
Corduroys, the smell
of Cheerios bloated
and floating in milk.

What have I missed?

And my favorite. Added punctuation and removed/changed some words or line structure. Tercets happened to work well, so I ended up going with that. Did line breaks as I thought they were needed, emphasizing particular words or images in the poem:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive across town
for a friend: To Justin’s house, on a Saturday, at nine.
His wife yells, from under wet hair, belt unbuckled.

He’s down in the office and I sit—
Collapse— on the new couch;
Custom made, brown, and squarer than a couch should be.

Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection—
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now—
He can’t put them on, but he knows

they go on his baby legs.
and there I am,
with my friend’s family,

on a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth

while she hoists and struggles
to pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest--

my blue, down vest--
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California

is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys.
There is the smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk.

What have I missed?