Skinnamarink is our favorite jam
on the power walk to daycare each day
over bottles, caca and blood – all gray,
the road hard to read like let’s hope I am.

But we run roughshod over slate sidewalks
trod on by ten thousands of misty eyes
as drivers run lights towards slate-colored skies.
(What dreams will emerge from the way he talks?)

I turn the corner to daycare fretting,
other people’s kids are our daily bread;
I leave with a kiss to my daily dread
of existence, out of breath and sweating.

Something has to give, from on foot to bus
to train to foot, not for me but for us.