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.