OK, here it is. (Warning: long, at least longish)
The Feeding Room
They tend to put it, planning shopping heavens,
behind extended walls, ushering even
the door back out of casual sight; inside
a plastic chair that sticks itself to summer?s
and hormones? sweat, next to the bin
and piped with flushing music from the loo.
And then they ask, when we have perched
in the café, on the edge of a display, or on a bench,
fenced by a boundary of bags, oh, might
you be more comfortable doing that
in our facilities? And then we think,
no, I would not.
And afterwards we pass the magazines:
braless, wide-open shirts at teenage-height,
and the girls who see them twitch and lift
at their pink-spanned, upwards-pushed array.
It is just fine, it seems, in fact, encouraged,
to get them out for the boys.
You cry; you nuzzle at me, stretch the sling,
and I am out under a city sky,
out here with smokers and with monuments
and buskers. It is warm. On a low step,
grey, and fairly clean, I take you out,
lift up my top ? your eyes glaze over, and your mouth
makes practice-gulps at mother-sweat-warmed air ?
and hold you close, your hand grabs me for anchor,
you suck, your eyes fall shut; you dive
right into milk, completely. I straighten, and sigh;
the agitation action-stationed by your cry
clocks off. I?m rich; the city day is mine.
Nobody sees what I do: they look straight at me
and somehow miss the exhibition I
am making of myself, the streaking straight across
the public field. I am just a tired mother
whose child, then screaming, now miraculously
quiet, has given her a moment?s break.
You surface sleeping, ready for the sling;
I, secret scandal, rise and wrap you in.