Ode to the Working Momma

I see you

throwing loads of piled laundry into

the washer – a hopeless endeavor

half asleep at two seconds to

midnight – the only time you have

to do anything

dust collects on face creams

made to recede wrinkles of exhaustion

dishes have piled high

but your hands are

as overworked as your mind

and instead – you stroke your sleeping

child in the dark

stealing back a few moments

lost in the commute

you made today to put

their cotton pajamas

on their body

so you whisper

I’m sorry


You’re welcome


I love you

into the dark

against their sleepy breaths


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