2006: More

My name is Ben. I'm only one;

my earthly days have just begun,

so I have lots of time for fun,

and it all starts with eating.

I just learned how to walk, not well;

I don't speak words and I can't spell,

but there's one field where I excel,

and that's the art of feeding.

One thing that my parents teach,

with spoken words still out of reach,

is how to use my hands for speech.

I think it's called sign language.

The signs they try to teach me run

from "ouch" to "sleep" to "walk" to "done,"

but I remember only one,

and you can understand which.

Of all the things there are to say,

I need, on any given day,

one single sign to get my way;

the rest are all a bore.

Now, I don't care for "swing" or "share."

I don't need signs for "horse" or "bear";

there's just one thing that gets me there,

and that's the sign for "more."

Fingertips to open palm,

I manage that one with aplomb.

Just bring me more and I'll stay calm--

or you won't like my mood.

More of what, it hardly matters;

please make haste and hold the chatter.

Sausage, toast, or cookie batter--

just make sure it's food.

And so that brings me to Thanksgiving.

I must say with no misgivings

this is what I call a living--

they've finally understood.

Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes,

rolls and ham and braised tomatoes;

this is how my kind of day goes--

and it's all so good!

I'm trying foods I've never tasted,

learning turkey's better basted.

Good thing I'm elastic-waisted.

Will it ever stop?

I keep signing more and more

and they keep serving food galore.

I think my belly's getting sore--

did I hear something pop?

I've been having so much fun,

but all this food just has me stunned.

I wish I'd learned that sign for "done";

this "more" thing is a curse.

At last I sleep upon the floor,

and let them haul me out the door.

I only know the sign for "more,"

for better or for worse.