Oh Momma

This old country home is
full of husks and dead notes
muted in the dusty air.
A shell with a silver bun is in the rocker.

No Sunday dresses draped from
the line between the house and
the tree; and empty baskets
turned down on the back porch.

You have no idea when to eat
cause that triangle ain’t ringing.
You have no idea how to fold
cause you had clouds to chase outdoors.

Now the linens are yellow
and the truck is bleeding black
and negligence sure as hell
won’t bring Momma back.

A chest full of dresses are
consignment bait , and the treasures
of youth no more than obsolete.
Oh Momma, where’d you go?

No more buttery hands to salt
the ham; the coils are just tepid.
Coffee beans untouched even though
you asked for them.

It’s too late for gratitude,
and it’s too late to wash the windows.
Momma’s no more, no more.
I’m sorry Momma; may God reward you like I should.