Autopilot

At precisely 2:00 PM every Wednesday
I run out of spoons. A quick inventory
inevitably comes to zero or some negative
number so Autopilot clicks on
the Mom Taxi will do the work
of fetching children, ferrying them home.
I will not remember repacking the lunches,
feeding them snacks, curbing my swears.
The goal is bedtime. The goal is freedom.
I cling to hope like plastic wrap
praying I am not suffocated by dinner prep,
baths, pajamas, stories read aloud
or any combination of sibling rivalry.