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My mother calls. I never answer because she
Depresses me. Some hours later, I will find
The courage to hear what she's said, and what
I hear has never varied: first, she asks me how
I've been; she sometimes asks about the kids,
And then she gets to what she wanted most;
She seeks to burden me with anecdotes
Of aches and pains, and tales of visits
To physicians to obtain the opiates which
She requires, so she says, to function somewhat
Normally, and she is not, she says, an addict.
I consider stepping out to buy a Colt
Or Smith and Wesson, with which to more
Comprehensively alleviate the sorrow which
Has been stirred up by her, or may, instead,
Have issued from the sort of faulty chemistry
Which made my mother who she is,
And, now, unhinges me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 203 times
Written on 2019-04-03 at 03:25

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