from the window
i hear a scream,
a bloodcurdling cry
and the baby spatting
at the middle child,
I didn’t bite you
as hard as you bit me!

this after ten miles
for my eight-year-old’s legs
pedaling like a pro
along a creek-crowded path,
hula-hooping for the band
while the little ones
played imaginary games
in the trailer

and i think,
wet dishes from grandmotherly
meal in hand,
how is it that i must discipline
this moment of violence
when i cannot keep
the smile from my face?