Slap
I forget her slap against my
face, toss it in the mailbox,
a debt I think I've paid, tilla neighbor says of her mom,
just passed away, "She changed.
Before, she would never have . . . ,
and it wasn't only me--she threw
things, hit aides with her cane--"my envelope comes back unstamped
like one addressed to my friend,
diddled by his aunt as a kid,
too young to recall --we'dforget but we have to write a new
check, seal it up, drop
it back in the slot.
My New England pals
don't waste plastic
bags. In PennsylvaniaMom's ashes
zoomed on the back
of the motorcycle, but
Yankees shun
flash. Gifts
arrive naked--no "I thought you'd enjoy
this," no shopping story
or "I love you" to finish
the episode cheaply
before the ads.Sometimes I wish
they'd flush scarlet,
bellow,
break winter's ice
with spring's
gunshot cracks.Other times,
I sign on with Vermont,
hoot and sob
only in private -
never let
words splash
over the rim
of the cup.
CONTENTS