Make the Barbies Talk, Daddy

1.
They don’t sleep, our kids (two & six),
so we stumble through the days. Our

bedroom the brood chamber, queen, single
and crib, while clean laundry shouts “fold me”

from the blue plastic lattice basket,
squatting in the one unclogged square

meter of bedroom, but there is no
room for feet or arms to sort clean

boxers, so I wear nylon gym shorts,
washable daily in our

white-cold bathroom sink.

2.
We climb the hours until bedtime,
our PhDs grant knowledge,

and fretful thoughts, as we navigate
the minefield of our home. Eyeless toes

step lightly, avoiding homeless pacifiers
and Legos strewn like Monet’s

poppies across red oak floors. At times
we take only half-breaths and shrug as

another furrow joins the quartet at lip’s corner.

3.

I find myself a father — only child
raised by a single Mother — young girls

and tiaras a mystery, though my
wife is youngest of six, and like