Can you get me some barbecued chicken?”
my mother begged unmercifully
“Your father would have done it,”
and pointed to his wooden urn next to the cat
who sat quietly on the mantlepiece
“Okay, Okay,” I caved,
not wanting to bring up the deceased
“Just give me a few bucks
and I’ll get your barbecued chicken”
She hid her money in a secret hiding place,
behind a Hardy Boys book on a dusty shelf
“Tell them to give me a good-sized half,
and a side of mashed with brown gravy”
Mother liked white meat and creamy butter corn
She only ate chicken from around the corner,
couldn’t eat her own cooking or even mine
She preferred food prepared by the dirty little hands
of teenagers in white sailor caps
My mother didn’t ask for much
She had varicose veins in both legs,
a chronically woeful look on her face,
stockings…
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The Reluctant Poet 