9 poems dugger - Trish Dugger

Mother’s Day
All day long, every damn day
she lifts laundry from
the washing machine, flings
blue jeans into the drier,
slaps jam on slices of bread,
wipes sticky finger prints off
door knobs, trips over toy trucks
and baby dolls, plastic bats
and building blocks, drinks
cold coffee, eats leftover crusts.
This day is sparked by hugs
from tiny arms wrapped around
her thighs: I love you, Mommy,
by excited shrieks from her kid on
a two-wheeler bike: I did It! I did it!,
by her husband’s sudden hands
on her waist as she leans over
soapsuds in the kitchen sink.
Go sit down, Baby. I’ll finish up.
And she postpones running away
for another day.