Little Albert

11 months and 3 days pulled from an unknown womb, he
sat slobbery, center of room on an orphan’s rug.
The white coats introduced
the white rabbit, a mangy mutt, a dark silly monkey.
From control boxes appeared wool, burning news, and wig
masks—all to induce

the hypothesis. Clinical cause-“natural” effect. But no reaction
did Albert make. He sat quiet like a little baby should.
Then came a crash,
a clap-bang over-the-shoulder permanent association.
Each object now quick-changed his mood.
Awfully young to know the flash

of fear, the myriad sudden scares we birth unaware
from life-stuff. All timid steps and sweaty palms—
even the bumps and cold shakes—
are irrational. Innate and real are only two: bare
drops from nothing to nothing and a sudden death of calm.
Ladies and gentlemen, the womb fears ain’t fakes.