the sun doesn’t rise with time

instead it rises on the wave of kicks

and yawns from small feet and tiny mouths

it says hello not with a hand

but with the movement of a toy car

which found its way under my foot

rolling me to pots and pans,

eggs need scrambling and toys need

shelving, buckets lie empty

like the bed they fought so hard to get into,

like the clothes I bought for nights out

that only come once every blue moon,

and speaking of the moon

it doesn’t seem to visit as often

as it once had in our single days,

in our married days before the baby came

crying loud and hungry.

I’m famished from giving my all,

needing to manage time — it‘s

not mine anymore, but it is filled more.