Shoes kicked off by the front door,
Dirty, sweaty socks flicked across the floor.
A chorus of demands, immediate needs that require instant fulfilment.
Half eaten buttered bagels still litter underneath the kitchen table from twelve hours before.
The claggy, congealed porridge left crusting on the side, flakes like fallen wilted petals.
Trails of conversations, half spoken, abandoned to answer the shouts from the other room. Lost in the haze of unsaid, thoughts strewn across the pile of life’s leftovers.
A deep breath, bite your tongue, willing away the witching hour.
The longest stretch of the day,
The final sprint, then sleep.