Friday, February 15, 2013


you were working they call us the working poor
in surveys or institutional conversations about
people like- 
you were working they call us blue collar
in governmental board meetings and Springsteen

what are we working for? 

for Lola and Dakota and Ian and Ever

for Friday nights all in the bed and the smallest one falls asleep
like a kit in a fox den. 
never knowing anything but love, never felt anything
but a kind hand on her small fat butt, her butter
scooped cheeks.

for Saturday in the shower when the room puts a finger
across the door in a locked gentle click
hush and we are alone for ten minutes

for weekend trips up to the mountains
we spot a family of deer
the baby cries out in a hiccup of joy
daughter watches large blue eyes sleepy and kind
her spirit animals turn their heads like woven cotton

for evenings of sticky painted feet 
tears in the bathtub and the salty rocking of plastic ship
the ritual of drying off
brush hair, clean teeth

for son who will graduate with military grades
lined up beautifully peaks to the sky
for his hard work, ours

for a swaying movement toward the shore
of each day's crest and evening's tide
and again, together, again, together
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