‘Bottle Battle Blues’ by Mark F. Stone

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Bottle Battle Blues

When baby cries (as does his ilk),
I pacify my son with milk.
One day the milk would not pass through
the nipple as it ought to do.

I think the bottle bore a grudge.
That liquid clot just would not budge.
I told it, “I will count to three.
You will comply or hear from me!”

The cylinder fought. It brimmed with hate.
It just would not cooperate.
I said, “I’m not afraid to throttle
you obstinate and upstart bottle!”

Because the nipple had gone south,
I raised the tip up to my mouth.
I bit a hole—a quarter inch.
Now bottle meals would be a cinch.

I paused to bask in the pungent air
of my parental savoir faire.
It was a thrill to show my mettle.
My rearing skills were in fine fettle.

A hungry tot, the baby cried.
I raised the bottle to provide
the boy with milk. I had to rush.
A torrent of milk began to gush!

It splashed his tongue and sloshed about.
At last, the young lad spit it out.
The baby glared at me and frowned
because he very nearly drowned!

I still can see that moment now,
amazed that he survived somehow.
My plan fell flat and nowadays
the basement rat won’t return my gaze.

I rue my hubris and its cost.
A slice of life’s sweet luster lost.
But I’ll have bottle battle skill,
should bottles plot to test my will.

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Mark F. Stone grew up near Seattle, Washington. After graduating from Brandeis University and Stanford Law School, he worked as an attorney for the United States Air Force for 33 years.  He is a retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel and a retired GS-15 in the Federal civil service. His poems have been published by SCP, Light, and the Ohio Poetry Association.  He currently serves as the Club Poet of his local Republican club.  He lives in central Ohio.