For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
– Ernest Hemingway
They say it’s penned by Hemingway.
It may not be for all we care.
It shouldn’t matter anyway.
What matters is the story there.
Of course, we have the lump in throat:
A baby, dead. Its parent(s), poor.
Though not a word the author wrote
Allows us to be fully sure.
Perhaps, it’s one of hundred gifts
They got but couldn’t use in time.
Perhaps, they buy in bulk at thrift
And eBay it at premium dime.
Perhaps, they found it on a train,
Or nicked it from another’s bags,
Or had to buy, on shop’s complaint,
When doggy ate its seller’s tags.
Perhaps, they fell for “iPhone sale”
And got it in that pristine box.
Perhaps, they found the voodoo nail
Before they pulled the baby’s socks.
A million other stories fit
So snugly in this Six-word line.
Then why, then why go kill a kid,
When our imagination’s fine?
Because it’s not a “Six-word” tale.
It has two more that make it work.
The “Ernest Hemingway” detail
Is making all our tears jerk.
The man is god of brevity.
He wouldn’t write some frivolous prose.
Of course, it has more gravity
Than any that we can propose.
And so it matters if he wrote,
Or if it’s from another’s pen.
For they must have our louder vote
Applauding at their magic, then.
Minakhi Misra 