Padded Walls

My baby boy,
muscle and grins,
flails at the end of
his too-little bed;

the bed she gave me as an heirloom,
smiling,
wistfully planning for the children
of the children I haven’t
even had yet.

The frilly edges, firm sides,
crisp checks.

He grows.

He smashes the precious bedding
with his knobby toes,
throws his new weight around, thrashing the walls confining his length,
daring it,
willing it to expand.

Nothing has been too little before.
Nothing has been lacking.

There is nothing to do.
Money is tight,
and cribs expensive.

My boy, my only boy,
kicks at the walls
I have made by my failure.