Visiting Mom in Las VegasI turn toward the setting sun, the sound
Of my own mother's voice still rattling
Within my ears. "Come visit," she repeats
To me, but I would rather not, as I feel
Trapped when I am in her home.
She never moves. She tells the same
Old stories time and time again, and time,
While there, is stopped. Her stupid cat
Lays, silent, on its bed. The sun comes
Up and passes. I look at my watch.
Something is wrong. She drones. I start
To wish that I was dead. The cat moves
Off. My mother doesn't. I could use
A drink. My mother, a teetotaler, has
Milk and juice, and I begin to quiver.
I need alcohol, and some way to escape
This place. The lights of the Las Vegas
Strip glow down the hill and far away,
As I do a son's wretched penance.
"Say goodnight, Mom. Let me be.
I'll be back in the morning if the hookers
I've engaged are paid, and, if the colors
I have chosen on the roulette wheel
Are kind. If not, I don't know what
I'll do, and you can rehearse all your
Stories for the next time I feel duty-bound
To hear your voice. For now, accept
That, when the sun has set, your son,
Suffused with desperation, also has
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 47 times
Written on 2019-11-08 at 02:23
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