Mom

The phone rings. It's my mother,
And my spirits sag onto the floor.
It's as if, through a window I had
Opened by mistake, the raven
That bedeviled Poe has come
To perch not far from me. She
Doesn't mutter “nevermore.”
Instead, she whines about her
Life. It's always filled with tiny
Sorrows, neighbors who aren't
Kind enough and cabbies who
Can't find their way, and vague,
Unending aches and pains,
And, once she's done describing
Them, she tells me how to live
My life. I'm dying. “See another
Doctor. Have him prescribe
Something else.” She goes on
Suchwise for an hour. I pour
Myself more to drink. At last,
She flies back through the window,
And I laugh. Oh, wretched raven,
Bane of my existence throughout
All my life, despite your woes,
You're going to bury me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 78 times
Written on 2016-11-17 at 01:01

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text