Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Poetic Asides As blank as blank

As Old as My Mother

I’m almost sixty.
I don’t know why
I thought I’d never
get as old as my mother.

Now, I find myself
walking around in her body,
complaining about aches and pains
and staring at my wrinkly hands.

I think her thoughts,
marveling at how quickly
the weeks go around, wondering
when my name will be called.

I don’t worry as much as she did.
I’m an amateur. She was a professional.
As a teen, I’d be in bed and through thin walls
eavesdrop on Dad and Mom worrying

about who I was out with,
what we were doing together.
I’d never tell them there was
more to worry about than they thought of.

But with all the things
my kids told me
after they were grown,
yes, I’m as old as my mother.

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