Two Sweet Things

You’re almost five and incapable of quiet
while mama chats the weather, making coffee
for customers, wearing my apron and crying sleeves.
Your father beat up his girlfriend again
and she left. He sleeps next to the dark fireplace
except to press and bend cold metal for money
in a warehouse. He didn’t call for you
even on your birthday. You’re here every day
with your coloring books and his beautiful brown eyes,
smudging the pastry case glass to whine
for two sweet things. You’re too young yet to know
there can only be one.