Dreambaby as tattoo artist

by LHC

Dreambaby shakes the last of the Cocoa Puffs
into her breakfast bowl and reaches into the
very depths of the cardboard box to find her
prize. Her many-boned arm comes out and
there in her hand is a tattoo gun, already
buzzing and dripping ink. Oh boy, I say. This
is gonna be trouble. Dreambaby smiles
her many-toothed smile and says oh boy,
it sure is. Dreambaby sits under my desk
and tattoos her doodles onto my calves
as I work. My pain tolerance is becoming
heroic. Dreambaby’s hands are dripping
with ink and blood and plasma. I say, you
know, a tattoo is something you have to
take care of, and Dreambaby says, you
mean, like a puppy? I sit on the recliner
with my feet up and Dreambaby washes
my legs with unscented soap and water,
pats on Aquaphor, kisses each of my toes
while the TV plays reruns of M*A*S*H,
episodes I’ve never seen and which I’m
pretty sure don’t exist because Hawkeye
and Honeycutt are making out in the back
of a Jeep and that doesn’t seem like something
they’d air on American TV in 1977. Dreambaby
crawls into my lap and I put my arms
around her. We look down at my goopy
legs and I say, you’re quite the artist. There are
pinwheels and ferris wheels and fairies
and there’s Pegasus leaping from Medusa’s
bleeding throat and there’s an Escher
staircase and over my thigh there’s a cartoony
picture of me and Dreambaby in the recliner
watching Hawkeye and Honeycutt make out
in the back of a Jeep and there’s a little speech
bubble coming out of my mouth and I’m saying
good on you, boys, good on you.