My days go like that and I don’t have any kids.
I came here, ready to write the day away.
I stubbed my toe against a corner closet-step.
I warmed my coffee pot instead.
Flopping down to the chair that needed me, like everything else in the room:
the children crying, my plants are dying, the cold called me too.
I grabbed my socks put them on, fed the babies with tiny spoons.
Sipped my mocha piping hot and then I could not write.
Ah-ey, there goes my day.