ON THE SPOT

my children eat paste and playdough
in their happy corner
while i struggle to keep from eating shit

instead listening to avoid
as a smoke-filled voice in my ears some nights
sends me looking inward
his music so familiar after hundreds of plays
i long to ask the deeper whys of composition
he's as close as hours
as distant as century's turn
the lead elbow of queries pinned
neatly tied with a white sash

the children are sleeping, now
sweating in their dreams
the peace i've ached for all day
and i can barely keep from nuzzling them awake with kisses
as i wander back from the bathroom

this wooden chair threatens
to grow roots
and draws me back
dimming the screen and swaying
heavy-lidded
until the moments blend
and darkness can no longer be held at bay
by podcasts and YouTube
distraction upon distraction disrupting
this inner life

a life that could surely use a taste of paste
maybe once
in a while