One hundred tiny stomachs

 All suspicions proved right
 you bake cakes late
 at night and I work
 for our living;
 a hundred hand washes a day
 and once powdered and dried,
 firmly held and small-eye tired
 tied with string to their cots
 but refusing to get in them
 they sing quietly to themselves
 crumbs falling
 tumbling from their mouths;
 counting each one out loud
 we watch in the dark.
 One hundred tiny stomachs lined
 with day-old milk
 or whatever we could find
 and, lying down now
 grounded, surrounded
 I see shoes
 in their pairs
 by each bite-sized bed;
 their toes pointing inwards 
 as though one were asking the other a question.
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