i wouldn't call it poetry

good moments

my mother and i are
walking to our car from
the movie theatre--
i always spell it that way,
theater looks awkward
and out of place-- late at night
and it's windy
awfully windy
"it's a tornadocane,"
my mother jokes
shouting over the blustering
air that surrounds us

and i throw my arms up
towards the sky
and run to our car
screaming, "run for your life,
run for shelter,"
above the sharp sound
of the wind
and i flail
like one does
when they are running
for their imaginary life
and when we get to the car
we double over in laughter
as my mother struggles
with the car door
muttering about how
ridiculously fast i was
the world feels
like childhood memories

my mother and i are
laughing and drawing
and explaining
but nothing makes sense
because we're choking
on our laughter
and i can't breathe
and i love it
and it's so very funny
that i want to tell
everyone all about it
but they give me weird looks
when i try, and i muse
that i never can
recount a perfect moment
with my mother aloud
properly

there's too much to explain
and the wild humor
of the moment is lost on
others' ears

my mother and i are
having another odd conversation
and i laugh as she snaps
a picture of my butt
in the parking lot
"people will think you're
a pervert mom,"
i say, laughing some more
laughing like i've gone mad
she snorts and scolds me
for rearranging my pants

as we walk to the bookstore--
she's looking for another
cheesy teen book
a friend of hers
suggested-- i tell her
she reminds me
of the eccentric sister
in a young adult novel

she remarks
"i've always been
the eccentric one"

so maybe there are
good moments
i can think
of a hundred
more