My mom anxious can’t see the double image. Mixed together. A freak. Eyes of such great sadness and endlessness. That the world has forgotten about. So she sticks it to us. Ceasless. I want to caress her. To make her back into me. Fold her over and jam it through the plaids. She would be happy there she thinks. Away from the floors and the buttons and the steel counters. Away from the muck and the shitty streets and the window framing delis with tourists who pay too much for a tuna sandwich but suck it down dry with a bottled soda for fear that if they don’t see babel now it won’t be here when they get home. And the subways bleating and the right moment you feel to come out and sing then do it but make it matter man because matters when she breathes she speaks to the cautious thugs banish her to Brooklyn..
And in the evening she plucked her eyebrows and did her nails and waited for love.
They painted her and she blessed the beans.
Can you blame her.