I rise early,
Mother’s Day,
walk to a quiet green place
and apostrophize brittle
vocables to a concrete stele.
I see someone has already
left gifts of fallen leaves
and arid soil, the slough of
regret. I sluff off
the diaspora of distaste
meant to orient me
as a child to this very place,
replace it with the jaundice
of drink and a toast to
the sympathies of a misfit life.
Umbriate Press Poetry 