The muddy pumpkin rolls around
like a head in the trunk of our car
we’re late for your nap
but I still feel pumped up
admiring my own parental chops
for getting to the pumpkin patch at all
you yawn like an old dog
which triggers a convulsion of fidgeting
your body an irritable noodle
that contorts in the car seat
like some strange postmodern dance
but I will not be vanquished
I remind you of the hay ride
the banjo player
how the goat licked your hand
and when you begin to cry real tears
I break into an improvised song
about bums and poo
a paragon of mothering genius
you laugh mad bubbles of snot
and we sing together
all the way home.