On the day of my daughter’s
third birthday we emerge
from a mid-tier inn, all tired.
I display on my cheeks a shade
of red deeper than I my usual.
My debit card has revealed
an unbalanced jaywalk across
this life we’ve been cast in,
and hence I can feel no pain
when a sedan leaving the parking
runs over my toes semi-sheathed
in faux leather footwears.
My daughter shrieks, cries, mumbles
something we can decode
even without hearing. Later after she
falls asleep, and the panic settles,
and the post-coitus boudoir holds
my wife, dozed off, and me crumbling
in a desire to fix everything everywhere.
Illustration Nick Victor