Tuesday, June 16, 2015


I think of my mother
In her sunset years
Wanting to be useful
Even when she was not
Getting in the way
Trying to serve the guests
With her trembling hand
Shouted at, asked to go
Sit quietly aside
Watching the others
Wield their measured ladles ---
Strangers feeding strangers
With no common memories
Of going hungry
Of having been a have-not

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