a day in the life -
10:30 PM. Sirens arrive. Orange haze flickers just over the treetops a street away. Smells like burnt toast and blistering plastic. Sleep. Wake to mirrored closet doors rattling, beds swerving from under us. Call out to kids. Reshuffle beds. Wake, again, way too soon. Pour coffee. Fix lunches. Hit freeways. Drop kids. Finish rewrites. Rinse. Repeat. Driving sideways. Hitting scan on the radio. So she can sing along. And she'll sit. Thinking you're going to handle it. Until she's proven wrong. Until she's proven wrong. Until you prove her wrong.