NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Eighteen

Sunday Evening

I write in in my broken binding book
since the laptop taunts like a math teacher
and Margaret's washing machine's spin cycle


times my writing like a swim coach.


I write for thirty poems in thirty days
while she writes application essays.
Her right arm's hand grabs the others' wrists
as if to force herself to keep seated.


While I still freefall into our future,
she flings forward, fills out for financial aid.
I pay for dinner, scarves to keep her warm,
but I still freeload for time.


I quiet Molly onto the couch next to me,
convince her to  write haiku while her mother
stays at the keyboard, my mouth steady.
Saying nothing will be my only good tonight.