Can you get me some barbecued chicken?”
my mother begged unmercifully
“Your father would have done it,”
and pointed to his wooden urn next to the cat
who sat quietly on the mantlepiece
“Okay, Okay,” I caved,
not wanting to bring up the deceased
“Just give me a few bucks
and I’ll get your barbecued chicken”
She hid her money in a secret hiding place,
behind a Hardy Boys book on a dusty shelf
“Tell them to give me a good-sized half,
and a side of mashed with brown gravy”
Mother liked white meat and creamy butter corn
She only ate chicken from around the corner,
couldn’t eat her own cooking or even mine
She preferred food prepared by the dirty little hands
of teenagers in white sailor caps
My mother didn’t ask for much
She had varicose veins in both legs,
a chronically woeful look on her face,
stockings that sagged below the knees
and often left the house without wearing panties
“And when you come back,” she said,
“you can relax with the paper
on your father’s lounge chair,
and I’ll heat up a liver knish
and you can wash it down with a Pepsi”
And together we watched the 6 o’clock news
on her old Magnavox TV with rabbit ears
She ate her barbecued chicken with mashed
I read the Sunday Inquirer holding a knish
And Dad’s urn rested on the mantlepiece with the cat.
This poem was originally published in Dailydrunkmag.com
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
Do you want creamy butter corn as well?🙂
Thanks again, my friend.
This is such a vivid narrative poem. I felt as if I was right there with the mother and the son and the cat and the urn. Bravo!
Thanks, Liz. Stay warm.