“I saw your car out front last night,
but you must not have been home” she says.
I was asleep by seven.
“Are you alright?” she asks,
but how do I even explain
a hard day’s worth of fun?
I never complain,
but at six fifty-nine
when my head plunks down
just for a few minutes rest
I’m still trying to figure out
how it can be
that a day of dodgeball and friendship bracelets
chicken dances and cha-cha slides,
strong-arming sealed-tight thermoses
applying band-aids and tying shoes
rock-paper-scissors and hangman
standing as temporary mother
to a flock of twenty-four
can take everything I got.
And I’m still trying to figure out
at 1am, awakened,
propelled by unfulfilled duty
to write one more, one more poem
how everything I got is just enough
to prove I got more than that.