Mornings begin with the sound of your voice
tugging at ears a blend of screeching tires
and inaudible words set at the highest volume.
Your smile calls to wake up each and every day
at six thirty in the morning sharp, seven at most.
A method you have perfected over the years
caters to the needs of all your children;
the right amount of light to blind eyes awake,
an excess of heat to force off the bed.
You push out of the door, into the street,
into a multicolored rainforest with waters
infested with crocodiles and snakes
whose day jobs prescribe hours in the office,
and a lush filled with brothers and sisters
of the same color, the same blood, different directions.
A mother that forces her child out into the jungle,
without food or money to last the day,
with nothing but the endurance he has cultivated
over his years under her wing.
Guided by the rush of the life you have set
but confused by the congestion and stagnancy
of those who live it, he is left to stand
in the middle of a footbridge, above
a sea of cars that have ceased to go on,
amidst a current of people that move
from here to there, with his hand
stretched out towards them.