Poetry: The Perfect Place

By Mark Tulin.

My mother died, but don’t worry, she’s all right, doing just fine, spends her days in a wooden box with me, sleeping on the grass outside. She’s calm. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t eat a thing, doesn’t move an inch…
— thedrabble.wordpress.com/2018/09/25/the-perfect-place/

The Perfect Place
Mark Tulin

My mother died, but don’t worry,
she’s all right, doing just fine,
spends her days in a wooden box
with me sleeping on the grass outside.

She’s calm. Doesn’t say a word,
doesn’t eat a thing, doesn’t move an inch—
Nothing seems to hurt, plenty of fresh air,
warm sunshine and cool nights.

She’s where she wants to be,
her son by her side
deep in the woods—
The perfect place to reside.

Ashes burnt from the past,
memories drifting in the sea,
no longer flesh and achy bones,
no longer cataracts and hammertoes.