Sleepless

Some words that you start the day with, or the way which you announce them say:

It’s a new day.

Or else I would be tugging those heirloom overalls on the waist that outgrew chubby thighs;

yanking straps to a button below your ribcage, scratching my head.

 

The diapers are the same. Two untrained kids, an untrained life, sparkling bathroom, and a shit stained t shirt. Meals and snacks, snacks and milk between squabbles and we are at nighttime.

 

The beds drift apart. As I send you sailing, the air lets out. But the dip back to me

steers you to false reservoir. You’re back in my life raft. So I start the next day sleepless.

 

Weeks run together, childhood racing, and I’m in there somewhere

the egg on the spoon.

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