the scene:
quiet house, laundry spinning
husband out, children sleeping,
up typing in a tingling
of curious fingers seeking–
dreams i could be this i could be that
kerchang — kerchunk.
he has left change in his pockets.
they herald my attention
rise my legs to the chore
and the burning heat on the dime
doesn’t register on these
oven-calloused hands.
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