Thursday, April 4, 2013

NaPoWriMo 4


No bowls in the cupboard.
In these early days, we subsist on cereal and soup, sometimes salads
but nothing is in season and the garden has yet to be dug.
Plenty of plates, chipped, 
with veiny roadmaps from forkfuls past;
Dirty dishes and laundry, never-ending, 
done slowly in three-minute bursts between diapers and spit-ups,
after Henrietta's Hair but before Three is a Magic Number,
often taking several tries.
Wiping bubbles from my arm, I wipe bubbles from his mouth. 
I never saw myself here, not even for a visit.
And I'm not. At least, not I who never saw me here,
reformed nomad of no place interesting.
And oddly, the days are accommodating.
And strangely it makes sense.

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