knee-falling, anything-pleading, pressure-relieving.
intercession, supplication, massage, and Tylenol.
good quietly appearing, a breadcrumb trail for morning, when heading home becomes all
cheap pizza, letting your three-year-old paint your face, hoping your rain jacket catches
finding your just-clothed baby, puddle-naked, pride-giggling
watching her bent head analyze the paint, realizing how the spot between her hairline and her eyebrows is exactly right, and just how much she has your hair
and that your oldest needs you, even more than he knows.
breaking the rule
you created yesterday
about how much TV the kids can watch.
meeting a long blond woman gone platinum. Ankle-length skirt—denim—gold cross, and orthopedics, who asks you, unbidden,
if all four of yours are living,
because hers are not. And before you can answer, she says she can tell just by looking
that they are, and judging by the one at her feet,
that they are all
realizing it’s all a metaphor, but refusing
to point it out.