After practice

There was a poem in today
about five forty-five
as I pulled between the parallel lines
turned the wipers to silence
to hear the light tapping of not-enough rain.
Like any good mom,
the waiting time was mapped—
a full slate of ways
I could, or should,
occupy these twelve idle minutes.
I considered each of them carefully
sighed,
then reclined my seat,
gave in to the rain-song,
and slept.

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