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A Friday Evening

It’s a Friday evening,
dinner’s not yet started.

Elanor is grinning,
prancing. Now she’s stacking
wooden blocks, painted red,
purple, pink and yellow,
green and robin-egg blue.

Some make dominoes, while
others we spin and roll.
Wobbling, wobbling, wobbling—
they end with a crescendo.

“Mama”, “dada”, “uh-oh”—
little words that echo
through this small apartment,
along with pronouncements
only parents could decipher.

Next we scribble on New
Yorkers, coloring in
cartoons and white corners.

Then our one-year-old gets
jealous of the pen I’m
writing poems with. “No no.”
Crayons scatter. Blocks bang.
Dinner preparations
begin and play time ends.