Little Lucifer Poem by Adrianne Quinlan

Looking out the large windows beyond my
Cubicle I wonder how is it that you fool us
All so completely? You are younger than
The rest of us yet you prove so skillful, a master
Spinner never pricking your finger on a spindle.

Each tropical vacation you take is my torture.
And the intensity on my face, as you put it,
Stems from peering at your forehead seeking
Tiny horn-buds about to sprout.

Once veiled in mist now fully grown and
Still whining, passing high-quality copies
When only originals documents would do.

I bet your parents wept at your birth at the
Tiny water droplets where your face should
Have been.

You're a mother now, and everyone says
Your newborn daughter is your spitting image,
But each time I look at her all I see is a cloud.