Tuesday, February 26, 2008


Even in your sleep,
What little sleep there is,
you labor to keep each aloft,
though one may feel prickly
and one weepy.
Tomorrow one will be jittery
or unpredictable.
Your singular goal is
never let them

You are weary and
sometimes terrified,
but never bored.

At times you envy
the childless woman who
dines in symphonic elegance
across from the well-dressed man,
leisurely selecting
a perfect wine. Thoughtfully
discussing world affairs.
Completing one elaborate sentence
after another. You see her
at the supermarket, spending
countless minutes, teasing out
the choicest green beans,
as you race
to beat the school bus

You are a mother, a juggler
by trade. You pray
that every ball tossed
will come back,
for you to do it again.
While she toils each day,
just to create
something to toss up.
Something to fill
her spacious sky.

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