There’s my mother
still contemplating life
stuck like a baby
on the enormous dummy
of her infirmities.

Her family said she’d never get it right.
Love was a lean commodity
handed to her last.

A husband offered security
in a night-grey box.
It locked with a key bent
by emotional anarchy.

Before she loved
she had to ask permission.
She never found out
who was in charge.

She made a wish that
it would all be simple.
Her options dropped fast.

Acquisitions were easy.
Dogs and fishes
cats and children
plants and dishes.

But she swam in anguish
sat with anxiety.
She smothered her soul
and her eyes grew mean.

She reached for the pen
to sign the paper
of her malcontent.

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