My hair touches my soft, huge pillow
And I tuck myself, thinking
Of the bright yellow egg to be prepared by our mother
The next morning
A mother scratches through her hair
Tangled with worries of where
Her husband has been,
To get the wages for eggs
She hopes will make in time for her six year old son
Eyes closed
With rumbling tummy,
Little Tommy, will you wake up to the bright
Yellow sun not only
Your eyes shall see
But shall touch you hopes?
