From a Crawlspace
Dear Mom (she wrote),
I worry when I don’t see you,
and when I see you,
I worry you do not
see me.
Our tragedy.
Trying to please the other,
as if the other
were the mother–
And you, winded and wound
down,
are now pleased
by nearly all–
while I’m still wound
up, beached
in some gone breach–
the caked dust at the roots
of your window, the viscous air
we swam through
room to room, the much-vacuumed
carpet, its green closer
to a uniform at war
than a blade
of grass–
Why can I not get past
the so long past?
grasp what is nearly over–
understand it’s time, in time.
dear mom (she wrote), dear mother–
*************************
A draft poem of sorts for Izy’s Out of Standard on “Pigeon Superstition” on With Real Toads. Note that all poems are not autobiographical! This is an odd one for the prompt.
The pic is mine, done on a paper tablecloth at a restaurant (bar!)
ManicDDaily 
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