On Loss

It is hard to handle loss;
invited or otherwise
she hangs on my t-shirt like 
the grimy fingered 5 year old I used to watch on

Sunday nights.  When his mom went to her 
meetings so
she could be a better
mother
wife
caretaker
human.

She demands my attention,
pulls me one way then the 
other.
I can't resist her watery eyes,

the fierceness of her tug.
I want to watch tv or
put dino-bites in the toaster oven,
or anything else.

I swear it will be the last time,
no more bounced checks
no more dried macaroni on my second-hand jeans:
I'm getting too old for this!

Yet somehow it is Sunday again,
I pull up to the house, let myself inside
they see me
and
run.