You may wish, sitting
in your tasteful, detached house,
your drummer son gone.
Ordinary mothers
stir the soup, wipe off the snot,
wondering 'Why Me?'
Marriage ages us,
wrinkles us, shrinks us into
boredom habitats.
Families grow, feud,
prosper, wither, divide, fail -
continue something.
Play Polygamy
during long winter evenings
waiting for Spring's prickings.
