Poem: Mother

The work is never done, there's always more to do
You clean up the mess and get him dressed
Just in time to do it again

There's always an empty tummy or a full diaper
A ringing phone, a new request
Your time is never yours

No awards, no raises
No time off, no vacation
Not even the time for a sick day

Under appreciated, underpaid
You work for little reward

But what you do, it matters most
The product of your labor

A bright young child, full of love
Because you are his mother.