What about those darling books
So colourful
In the pink plastic cube
With nine squares on each side
Who’s going to read them?
What about those tiny clothes
So well-loved
In the crowded linen press
With embroidery on blankets nearby
Who’s going to wear them?
What about those favoured names
So considered
In the back of the mind
With other unfinisheds
Who’s going to get them?
Sorry mum, I don’t think I can give you a kid.