In the morning, you wake me,
feed me, clothe me, and shuttle
me to that place.
And leave me.
With naps and blocks and other kids.
And go elsewhere.
Spare me this sadness that I might smile.

In the morning you wake me,
I dress, eat, and you drive me.
And insist on walking me all the way inside.
I roll my eyes.
Spare me this sadness that I might smile.

In the morning, I get up, dress,
And get in my car, and you in yours.
And we drive. We get there, unpack.
You give me a kiss, and hug me tight, though I tower over you.
I sigh and stand there.
Spare me this sadness that I might smile.

Early in the morning, I get a call.
I rush dressed, and drive rushed.
Get out and rush in.
Antiseptic and worry permeate the air.
I hold you close and weep.
Spare me this sadness that I might smile.

Spare me this sadness that I might smile.