The editing is finally done. The shuffling of poems into a sequence has started, clipped together in groupings, and over the next week I am sure I'll shuffle and shuffle again until I am content - not until then will come putting all the editing from hard copies onto computer and transfer all the poems into a new file.
Mothers’ Day
In the café
at a table
sits a girl and a
man.
She is around
twenty
- a granddaughter
perhaps?
to the businessman
image
who casually
reports
to why the graze on
his face.
It is nothing –
he had parked the
car,
it was dark, a
branch,
that’s how it was
done,
and he continues to
eat.
She lifts the
corner of her napkin
and carefully spits
on the corner,
“there, there, all
better,”
as she dabs the wet
to his cheek.
(The mother-words,
the mother-cure
for the hurts and
bumps of little boys)
His deep lined face
falls askew
- without a sound
he cries
and cries
and cries
She is nonplussed.
What did she do?
Copyright: from "DAISY HILL- home is where the hat is."
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