To the Repair Station

A mother repairs toys for her children

Those afternoon hours seem as if they should be endless.
Miles and miles to fill before dinner and dad.
We drop our bags on the bench, and
We set our feet free, and I don’t have to say
Go play
Anymore to them, like I once did (they were
Uncertain of ‘what’s next?’ for years). Then
We all stare into the cupboard for awhile–
That takes time. The deciding and the eating,
And the crumb campaign too. Then they
Disappear into next-room neverland.

Meanwhile, I am
Afternooning, which is to say my mind has taken
Off on walkabout between defrosting dinner and
Facebook and unpiling the stack of papers over
There. And if I stop moving, I’ll be
Dragged by a frantic little lady and her
Plastic dog to the
Repair station for emergency
Battery-dectomy and tulle stitches.
Tomorrow someone will ask me how
Our summer went, and tonight I’ll
Try to fall to sleep and startle to
A parade of should-have-dones and
I’ll have to patch together
The reminder of one
Beautiful day.

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