My Baby Don't Talk Much

My baby don't talk much,
I would say this to my mother
Over a plate of ackee and saltfish,
After she brings up Elroy,
The one from town side
Who could chew raw words
And spin them into fine silk.
Silk my mother would
Stitch into the tapestry of
Her imagination.

My baby don't talk much,
I would say this to girlfriends
As we drank rum and coke,
Watching the sun dip into
The cool Caribbean sea.
And when he does talk,
It is not swee and thick
Like molasses, sure
To give a person sugar.

My baby is not the loquacious type,
The type that fires out words
With machine gun accuracy,
Hoping to shoot me down,
Claim my heart,
And put it on his wall
Of conquests.

My baby don't talk much.
He doesn't speak
In flowery language
That blossoms beautifully
But dies and withers away
In a matter of days.
My baby's words are
Like the evergreen
In Ms. Evie's yard,
The one that is always green,
Always flourishing,
Always trying to touch the sky.

He is more the type
Who would consistently
Feed me kindness, respect,
Support, generosity, love
Until I am the one
Who follows him home
Like a love sick puppy.

My baby may not talk much
But he does much,
He feels much,
He loves much,
He is much
And that means much more
To me than mere words,
Than mere talking.