at six in the morning.
i want to have
something
to eat when i get home
at five.
i stand at the kitchen
sink,
looking out the window.
i mix up
the eggs and breadcrumbs,
the onions
and peppers,
ground beef,
my hands cold in the steel
bowl.
i think of my mother.
how many meat loafs
she made
waiting for everyone
to get home.
seven kids and a husband
who probably
wouldn't show.
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