2:15

The blood with cow, pineapple juice and a cigarette,
A decorated dinner fork stabbed into the thick meat,
With a knife, work and stretch,
Be neat…

Paper towels folded in 4 x4 square sets,
For when I’m gone and it’s time for the kiddoes to eat,
Three homemade stained saucers still wet,
Three small seats.

A knock on the kitchen door, it’s the nanny,
The kids awake,
She’s a little late,
A kiss on the kids’ foreheads…
A step outside into freezing cold,
I shut the door and expand the umbrella,
A walk to night to work all night,
To return in morning at the break of sunlight,
They, firm in school, with worries aside,
I, firm in pain with worries inside,
2:15 hits the school bell tolls,
A charging children to yearn for my hold,
A surreal feeling that never gets old,
Conversations on trails witnessed within the day,
A closed mouth father to hear what they have to say,
Home now reached,
Complaints now preached,
Homework now taught,
9:34 they now asleep,
A knock on the kitchen door, it’s the nanny, it’s time for them to eat,
I step into the cold street…
Where the manholes steam and horns screech,
Every time I shut that door…I become weak,
I become strong because they need me to be concrete…and there at 2:15.

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