Hmm. I'd better do Some Laundry or Something

My mother's here. She's 89, inert,
Of course, incurious. The past is
Where she's gone to live, the present
More a screening room for images
Of all that was. She plays them
Without surcease for the both of us.
I start to squirm. Given what I
See in her, my future isn't
Promising, but, in the present I
Call home, there are things
I could do.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 65 times
Written on 2021-10-13 at 19:00

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