moments

Each day is a fist
full of moments.

Snot smeared fingers
brandish a bouquet
of boogers:
Here, Mom!
They are always for me.

Let's pretend
I don't notice you, quietly
poking little sticks
into the seams of the brown couch
and unpicking them.
White fluffs of stuffing drift
like spring flowers.

Let's pretend
you are dinosaurs, lumbering
through strewn toys;
you are better at sharing
when you are dinosaurs.
I am the mountain sleeping
on the brown couch,
I do not want
to erupt.
This volcano can sleep for
millions
and millions
of years.

The baby, walking
Here: hold
my huge finger
in your little fist.
Your folded hands are warm and tender
as wilting flowers.