THE LAST few minutes are a thing to behold,
The morning was great, but even harmony gets old.
Per her request, the elves split and they hid,
And she was dressed like a model, before we second kid rid.
As we brought it back home, we couldn’t resist,
“The Twelve Days of Christmas,” she sings it best.
Her biscuits were baked as we walked in the door,
And they went down smoothly, with butter – no more.
But it happens each day, as the last minutes tick,
The head band wrong color, the shoes played a trick.
The search it begins, as the pressure gets high,
I plead, “It’s not worth having a tear in your eye.”
But they come anyway, as she brushes her hair,
The pain in my heart, more load to bear.
I try hard to keep it, from erupting in shout,
We gather and rush, to the car and out.
Her friend, he knows, she’s under duress,
Her silence is telling, she stares down the abyss.
She shoots me a look, says “My day won’t be good,”
After sharing words of love, each day like we should.
I want to scoop her up, and hold her so tight,
The announcements are blaring, so it wouldn’t be right.
As I get back home, with a long list to do,
I’d smoke if I had’em, my nerves it would soothe.
There’s death and mayhem, in this country each day,
Problems worldwide, and pointing this way.
Momma’s road trip is ending, her safety we need,
I say it quite often, it’s my constant plea.
But our little girl’s busy, her days are consumed,
She’s far far from loafing, as some might assume.
So my wish and my prayer, would selfishly be,
Let our baby be wise, happy, care free.
© 2015
Andrew Spradling 