“Are you going out for your mom’s birthday?”

It was a question.
The question.
Last question.

The end came long before.
It was triplets screaming
Fists POUNDING
Faces red
While he scrolled his
Phone.

Forgetting a weekend class,
He heard about 20 times
Flowed in a stream
Where the ripples always
Washed up
Dirty dishes
Forgotten trash
Unchanged diapers.

Such a stream reeks.
Eventually,
Everyone will move.

No one needs 6 kids alone.

But no one needs a
Person watching Netflix,
Toddlers running,
Tearing into the fridge,
Ripping down the shower curtain.
Netflix
Unpaused.

If he crawls on my body
After never touching me
With a brush of the hand
Or slight lip glance
It makes my skin tighten
And my body roll away.

He won’t leave,
On this day
When he mistook my mom’s birthday
For a weekend class.
He would do nothing either way.
Netflix
Cell phone
Napping.

Toss the coin.

But I will leave.
Hopefully.
After class.
After dinner.
Hopefully.

Soon.