Frustrated (Filial)
I have my mother here.
I get furious at her, perhaps unfairly, because
she does not always understand people
who are different from her.
Often she is open, sympathetic
to all beings of the
world, other times
less so.
And just as she does not mean
to be intolerant, I do not mean
to be angry. But old habits-what it meant/means
to be misunderstood–what it means/meant
to fail at being
nice–
die hard. Anger certainly
won’t cover
lost ground; and yet we trot it out, an
old plough horse that knows well
its way home.
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Ha! Here’s a draft poem. No resemblance to any person living or dead is intended.
My mother is, in fact, a very tolerant person. She likes to get involved in political arguments that I personally find almost intolerable. I just don’t like politics very much.
Also, as in the case of many people’s mothers probably, she has a hard time understanding the demands of a second career as, for example, a blogger! (Agh.)
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