Once a Mother...

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    Once a Mother...
    “Sit up straight,” my mother said,
    as we sat down at the table.
    “Yes, Mom,” I said automatically.
    I didn’t complain because this was Christmas
    and it was good to be with Mom again.
    Suddenly my nose itched and, 
    reaching for my handkerchief,
    I sneezed.
    “Do you have a cold? I bet you have a cold.”
    “No, Mom.”
    As the first course was served
    Mom looked up again at me.
    “At least your hair isn’t down in your eyes
    anymore. Why don’t you try combing it over 
    to hide that bald spot?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    When the main course came, Mom changed the subject.
    “Is your boss paying you any more? I sure wouldn’t work for him.”
    “No, Mom.”
    Then just as the dessert arrived, Mom gave me another good, hard look.
    “Are you watching that spot on your face?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    I sighed. Just like every other visit.
    Except now I’m 62
    and she’ 89
    and our dining room is in a nursing home.
    Once a mother, always a mother.
    “Sit up straight,” my mother said,
    as we sat down at the table.
    “Yes, Mom,” I said automatically.
    I didn’t complain because this was Christmas
    and it was good to be with Mom again.
    Suddenly my nose itched and, 
    reaching for my handkerchief,
    I sneezed.
    “Do you have a cold? I bet you have a cold.”
    “No, Mom.”
    As the first course was served
    Mom looked up at me again.
    “At least your hair isn’t down in your eyes
    anymore. Why don’t you try combing it over 
    to hide that bald spot?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    When the main course came, Mom changed the subject.
    “Is your boss paying you any more? I sure wouldn’t work for him.”
    “No, Mom.”
    Then just as the dessert arrived, Mom gave me another good, hard look.
    “Are you watching that spot on your face?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    I sighed. Just like every other visit.
    Except now I’m 62
    and she’s 89
    and our dining room is in a nursing home.
    Once a mother, always a mother.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Bobwelbaum’s Poems (23)

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    I Want 0 02/22/2012
    Once a Mother... 0 06/06/2011
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    No Problem -- Or How to Handle Difficult People 1 01/30/2011
    No Foolin' 2 01/23/2011
    Dreams 1 01/16/2011
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    Perspective 1 12/31/2010
    Time Slips Away 2 12/28/2010
    Ode to a Modern Warrior 2 12/16/2010
    The Patriot 2 10/26/2010
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