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Mother’s Day Dinner


Mother’s Day Dinner

She was old by then.
And she always had been
the auburn, olive skinned beauty
whose element of passion like
the full Florida year
could compass the range of
storm and serenity, of
sun love, moon moods, and
the urgent sudden squall.

She would end up a life wise woman
who would devour her way through
layered page of romance novels.
She had become an expert.
In the den of her room, and
sitting on the edge side of her bed,
smoking Dutch Masters cigarillos,
through the coral of sunset,
into the soft shell of dawn,
precisely there she read.

There is a final complaint she made
over a late supper with
her first born, her darling son, her
favored, sacred one who
she thought should have saved her, she said:

“Tommy, why look down on me
because I keep my glass
half-filled with sweet port, my
‘southern ice tea,’ you say?
Why refuse a girl a drink?
All of my young girl dreams
never, not once, or ever
kept around, came up, came true.”

For the record, he replied,
“When you put it that way, Mama,
you are right.”

Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, May/16/2020, 6:18 pm
May/16/2020, 6:11 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


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