Friday night fleeing from the scrum
like the last thing on our minds
are other people’s kids:
the outrageous, hysterical bashing we take
hour by hour as 
we 
just 
try
while each successive boss quickly forgets front lines
and asks for ‘evidence’
of piling into the meat grinder

Then something tiny reminds 
why we’re even here:
a flood of tears perhaps as dogs have died
or that kid who says “I’m a microwave 
bzzzzzzzzz”
and despite our glowering frowns
we smile so hard we cry