Member-only story
Poetry
Loose Change
the ceiling fan clicks like a busted clock,
and I’m sprawled on the couch,
socks mismatched,
watching her wrestle the kids into pajamas
while I sit here,
useless as a bent nail,
thinking I should’ve helped
instead of scrolling headlines
about wars I’ll never fight.
she’s a machine,
all grace and steel,
packing lunches, wiping noses,
and I’m the guy who forgets
to sign the permission slip,
who trips over the Barbie jeep
and curses loud enough
to make the 4-year-old blink —
my daughter,
those big eyes like her mom’s,
wondering why I’m a thunderstorm
when I should be a blanket.
the 5-year-old, my son,
he’s got a stick he calls a sword,
wants me to play knights,
but I’m no king,
just a peasant with a mortgage,
grunting “in a minute”
until it’s bedtime
and he’s asleep dreaming
of a dad who’s not a shadow
fumbling with Lego bricks he can’t connect.
she kisses my cheek anyway,
says “you’re doing fine,”
but I see the dishes I didn’t wash,
the trash I didn’t take out,
and I feel it —
this weight,
like I’m a coat rack
holding up their lives
when they deserve a foundation,
not this strained frame
that groans under the load.
I lie awake,
hearing the kids breathe down the hall,
her soft snores beside me,
and I’m counting failures
like loose change —
not enough to buy redemption,
just enough to rattle
in the dark.
