In Cahoots Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Saturday afternoons mean
you push the dreaded pencil,
swirling dusky lead into periods
black as coal.

With your jacket nearly on,
I notice the the misspelled
'hamer, ' so you return to
the kitchen counter and
fix the mistakes I've found.

Double consonants notwithstanding,
your work is a thing of beauty.
Sentences grow like flowers and
your numbers fill every hole.

But outside it's raining harder,
and mommy wants you inside,
so we squeeze through the living
room window, replace the screen,
and silently go.