How can I talk about love when the bacon is burned and the house is an absolute mess and the children are screaming their heads off and I'm going to miss my bus?

I want to speak to you of love, I want to tell you of each dream that nestles my child-like mind. Too old to dream of stickball, to young to dream of eternity.

I feel urges, that are called natural. Emotions that real men hide. I want to engulf your soul with my heart. Touch you with the life flowing through my veins. As I reconcile burned bacon with hungry brothers and sisters. I take a fleeting moment to imagine you age 21.

The warmth of your face renders suns useless. The sound of your voice blocks out the screeching of the bus I'm missing. I need to talk of love, but I can't. Not while the children are screaming.

I clean up as fast as I can. There just isn't enough time. My soul is weak. I put thoughts of love, of love and you, aside. I renew my pact with the chaos of a white trash slum in Richmond Hill, Queens. Another day, perhaps, I'll talk of love. For now I must ready my home.