Mom

Mom

I

Sitting there at the table
in her hot wheels
shiny chrome
rubber edges
for a moment she is young again
riding in a rag top
along some shore
somewhere
hair blowing in the breeze
her lover driving
into a
secret week-end
into
a secret spot
into
a memory burned forever in her brain.

She looks up from her toast and jam
With a coy smile
to remind her lover husband
of the secret time
and sees the empty chair
and speaks to the empty air
and one solitary tear
becomes a prism on her cheek
and one solitary chair
becomes a prison
instead of a sun drenched chariot.

II

If just one moment in a day
Would remind her of the lifetime
Then the day could be tolerated;

But a glance at a drinking glass
The touch of a piece of furniture
The scent of soap in the shower
A pair of manicuring scissors
All reminding her
Of her friend
Of her confidant
Of her lover.

Over and over
in rapid succession
the images
the imagining
seeking the warmth
touching only the cold.

III

Her life poem
Is now
The struggle against
pointlessness
against
hopelessness
and while others admonish
with plattitudes
and attitudes
of condescension
she falls victim to reality
she falls
she
is disappearing
little by little

a holographic reference to herself
a memory image
seen only when
interpreted
from a certain angle.

IV

Shimmering silks
Satins
French Hair-dos
Jewels
Shamed by
Glowing, expectant eyes

Evening revelry
followed by
the release of flesh
from girdles and high heels
the release of tension
with quiet conversation
and rejuvinating sleep.

But now the wind howls through her mind
now clouds cover the horizon
now cold, stinging rain stabs the moors.

She cannot remove her girdled brain
squeezed by time restraints.
New sleep means only wakefulness
And wakefulness the end of dreams