Fill me full of dreams
while an angel
destroys a kitchen
and burns holes
in the carpet
with a child’s dream
of a match bonfire.
Say I may have luck
while reprimanding
the me, the mom,
because the angel
spilled the juice
left soda on the stairs
and got into, yet
more matches.
Say I’m not a failure
because angels launch
head first
into beds
and ravage the sheets
and fine comforters.
All while wearing
wet underwear.
Tell me…tell me I’m okay
despite my little
angel of chaos.
Give me hope
that I’m at least
doing something right.
See my dreams
and maybe whisper
that anything
is possible.
Author T.S. Lowe 