Calling to wish her a merry Christmas was like having a dog piss on my leg.


Mom

She's a pathetic thing, and not because she's old.
Her subdivision's only for the old, and one can see
Them playing golf and swimming, sewing, laughing,
As she hides at home with no one near, except her
Cat and certain faces she allows to natter, dawn
To dusk, on her TV. She tells her kids how sad she is.
"I have no friends. Nobody comes." It's true,
But she complains if someone does. She never
Visits others, doesn't much like anyone. If she
Knows how to be a friend, it's knowledge that
She doesn't use. Instead, she sits alone and pouts,
And waits to hear the doorbell ring, to witness
An adoring throng that stretches out onto
The street. Of course, she'd soon find them
Annoying, and she'd wish they'd go away. She
Cannot be satisfied, poor, pathetic thing.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 80 times
Written on 2019-12-27 at 18:34

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