Duty

Duty calls. That's all. My mother fell.
She's in the hospital. I've tried to phone
Her. She's been busy. Someone's there.
It's feeding time. That's fine. I am not
Keen to hear her whine the way she
Always does. Before these fractures, she
Had headaches, backaches, constant chronic
Pains. The only difference now will be
That x-rays will provide new reasons for
The misery she feels, and always has,
And always hoped to blame on ailments,
Not her mind, though it's the organ which
Is causing her enduring suffering. She tells
Me she's a happy person. She says lots
Of silly things. I find her brokenness
And lack of self-awareness quite depressing.
In a better world, I'd have reasons not to talk
To her, but I'm her son. She's sort-of waiting.
Duty makes me call.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 43 times
Written on 2021-11-14 at 00:31

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