On the Pile of Papers

Every season

A pile of papers sneaks into my abode;

Then it invades my toddler’s little world

Stares at my meager amenities

Sneers at my expectations

Steals the peace of my home

I unpack the pile, as I must,

Eager to dispose it at the earliest;

As I turn the scribbling,

Myriad faces and emotions haunt me;

But I pretend being untouched!

Who are they but fugitives of an ailing country?

What do I do but measure my own failure to instill commonsense?

I ply on, through the pile, as I must

Intent yet unclear

Committed yet confused,

While my toddler timidly asks from the door:

“What do you read, papa?”

With no time to lift my eyes

                To read his appealing face

I only manage to blurt out:

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

[From Six Strings]