The alarm blares, the snooze already exhausted.

Coffee fills the same beat-up thermos from that one indistinguishable Christmas.

Outside, hands sting and breath is seen.

The key turns, the engine sputters.

It finally starts

...

What day is it? Day 15? 16?

Soon, maybe, a few hours to rest.

Then also the bathroom door needs fixed, maybe then is a good time to do it.

Rent is almost covered.

Although there's not much to eat.

Another Little Caesars' should get them through the weekend.

...

The old pickup jerks along the road,

at lights the heat has to be turned off

or a burning smell fills the cabin.

Metro Detroit is so gray this time of year,

a white, salty crust covers everything while drying skin.

The years of labor worn on the wrinkles of the face and the scuff of the boot.

...

Maybe they won't notice that their clothes are all thirfted or donated.

Or that this year's Christmas gifts were from the Church's toy drive.

Do they think it's normal to all share one bed?

The kids are smart, they'll do better.

Although college is expensive, maybe I can put away a couple dollars here and—

...

The truck's abrupt stop cuts the previous thought.

Only a quarter mile to work, push now, fix later.