that’s how she would put it.
and though i would try to explain.
all my pleas would go in vain.
and it would just happen over and over again…
the neighbor girl said:
“she has problems with her memory…”
but mine worked too well
i would remember how she raised me in hell
a little corner i called “the crucible”
where i learned how to sell
my soul for more than lumps of coal
but i bet the average person wouldn’t
dare to walk a mile in those worn soles…
i have fond memories of how she would
tear it down in Lerner’s, The Limited, Macy’s, and Filene’s too!
So many bags
me and my “brother”
would often carry one or two…
The stares she would get
when we would reach the steps
of our project stairs…
i think the hungry eyes were begging her
to just stop parading her wares…
But she never did!
She even bought a house upstate
in a sleepy ole town
Of that i am truly proud…
But it also makes me sad
about how her life turned out
Now she can’t buy a thing…
Forget about trying on minks…
After her stroke it became difficult
for her to talk or think...
she could barely sound out the words
when she would curse me…
“You are not my son get out!”
so i packed my stuff
and went another route…
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