For some reason,
my life space
has become a literary soup.
A child here that
does not understand.
Another child there,
that decided to
collide with the world and life.

She wants to share the
world in herself.
I have a daughter
who is learning to be snarky.
She has the world in her eyes and
not sure what to do next and
then she gets her legs tangled up,
from trying to grow up.
And my son,
my son,
my son,
trying to stretch out
and discover
the world and hiding
behind the box of
adolescence.
The soup is hot,
it's rancid,
it's fresh,
and the crab claw reaches out
and clips my nose.