I want to write.
I got to write.
Cliches. Who minds?
Little time to write more than a few words.
Complete sentences, maybe.
Is it sign I’m lazy, or just the sign of the times working from six a.m. or sometimes five.
Head stuck in a book.
Close the book.
Son wakes up. Sweet at first. Love the face he makes each morning.
Quickly absolves into kicking and screaming.
Trimming of nails in a battle of wills.
Oh no, pinky bleeding. Clock ticking.
My parents cannot decide who is staying or who is leaving.
Son in the living room, alone, playing.
A stay-at-home mom once upon a time.
Once upon a time is made for those
whose pockets and closets are full.
Rise up fingers as you type.
For I will not be tired
Or mad even if there is no time to write.
Greater events call us writers now.
For there are those who have not, and many who have less.
What will my son have in ten years from my twelve hours of work?
Screaming, kicking in the living room.
I hear the nurse’s words, “They will not take his insurance.”
My son will not be treated. Take him away from those
Who will not treat just as they would not treat my husband’s
Hand when the MERSA took over. His finger will never move
The same way again.
I work and work to accomplish and build a future for
Us that will yield something besides enough to cover bills.
But nothing is as bad as hearing my son
Crying for his mother to come.
Worst mother in the world, maybe.
Block it out. Get to class. Get the A
so that maybe a future boss will see
I got something to give because never again will I work for nothing;
Work for something false prophets say one day will make money.
Take a few moments.
Take a break. He is asleep.
Pick up fingers. Type for me.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson