Dear God,
A night shift pulled and an uneasy sleep through the middle morning. He lays his head upon her chest and he disappears. She is eleven years older than he. “Life is hard,” she sighs. The kids have left the house, bound, perhaps, for school. Anyway, the kids have left the house. Two kids: his son, her grandson. It is hard to know, on such a schedule, who is doing what. Everybody does what they have to do. For the time being he and she are only staying together temporarily, but soon they will move in together. His second marriage, her third. They will sleep through many a day, work the production-line shift through many a night. Theirs will be a pooling of meager resources. A love.