in memory of doris, my mom

 

       

poem

can't sing a lick,

do the rumba, cha-cha

& is definitely not

a lindy hopper

 

nor can she cook

good tho

turns out a mean

chicken soup

 

& she isn't

into xmas, new years

birth-, emphatically not

mothers day

 

nor does she wrap gifts

 

but

when the sun

beams, thru

moving

 

hair, blue

hawk eye, gleams on

earring, thru moving

 

hand, finger

brush, touches

paper, she is

alchemists

 

mistress, lady

vermeer,

 

pure

 

light

 

 

 

from "Playland"