Love Me Cub

I completely identify with this tiger cub. Were I able to turn back the clock to when my days were filled with nothing but belly rubbin' and breast feeding, I'd do it in a heartbeat. And how sweet is kiddo there, stretching his heart out? I have to stand on my tippy toes to hug, too. But look closely. Do you see what I do? That is a desperate hug. I know the desperate hug very well. Baby is holding on for dear life, oh so needy, begging for a little love and attention. Or a lot. Now notice though the look on Mommy's face. She couldn't give two shits. The cub's arms might as well be a candy necklace. In my paranoid waking life, let's say 9 1/2 out of every 12 hours I'm conscious, I imagine hers to be the exact expression on the faces of everyone I've ever hugged. It's so Woody Allen of me. No wait, it's so Sylvia Plath. No wait, it's so Earnest Hemingway. Nah, it's more like Anne Sexton. Or maybe Virginia Woolf. Oh, Jesus! I have to stop there, because if I get into Irish poets, the list of names'll look like James Joyce's first draft of Ulysses.