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His car is in the driveway.
His shoes use room in the basket by the door.
Worn scrubs sit in the closet.
Spots of patients’ blood on scrubs
now do touch the floor.
As a shovel turns dirt,
where what was once in darkness is now in light.
A change ensues and the mindset shifts
as over his shoulders he pulls a shirt,
and puts on many times worn jeans.
Suits change as duties do, seemingly with ease.
He speaks words to a child listening,
languages of physics, reasoning.
I catch his eyes with teaching excited.
Yet with more questions from his spirited sprite,
he takes a detour on frustration’s ride.
His child’s understanding is much more work away.
~
each works
he writes
son learns
deep breaths
and sighs
number sentences
do make sense with time
papas
moms
double duty
triple jobs
shifting gears
to see childhood questions
for a short time disappear
two alarms ring at the prearranged time
in these winter hours
the sun is just now above the horizon line
clean scrubs are thrown
onto his body known
eyeglasses do frame again his face
~
Through and out the door
he hurriedly strides one time more,
as the worn and dirty scrubs
still stain the hardwood floor.
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Mary Jane Goodman
Mary Jane's Shoes 