Then who watches us

in the overcast moments?

When bad days eclipse,

spread in clumps like frozen butter,

rolling with it grains of stale bread

and we curl, quaking from its chill?

Then who praises us

when the work is done?

Our achievements almond flour across our palms,

Residue from the perfect batch, eaten —

and we leave our hands unwashed? 

I watch yesterday

from my bedside window,

licking his fingers clean,

and I listen to today’s tummy grumbling

against the hum of my ceiling fan.