I clean and cook and
and you, baby boy at my side
destroy faster than I can put together.
It's hard, sometimes, to wash dishes and them put them on the table
and put them back in the sink
you walk, my daughters, in sticky shoes across the floor
still damp from sponga and turn up your noses
at my attempts at dinner.
And I think, I can't.
And I think, it's too much.
And also it's cold and also we're broke and also and also and also
You think that will make it all better?
I love you too, baby boy
But there never was a but, you know.
The second you smiled
and asked me what clouds smell like
and arms flying, told me that story about Rav Shach
you, you three
you sticky picky three
take my protests