when the sun
kisses the sea orange,
my father comes home with sawdust
caked underneath his nails.
i remember how my mother
brushes them clean
until the water becomes yellowish,
like the sun.
That night, we will tuck ourselves in.
But i'll still be left at dusks.
wishing for that very same one,
where their worries would recede,
like the orange.
Where they will not have to think
about tomorrow
too much.