dirtyfacecrpd

This is a poem from a bipolar child looking back on the work of a remarkable mother (1984).

Without a deep internal burst of

Emotion

That makes a poem.

 

Or

A brief moment

In time

 

Across the page of humanity.

 

There is memory.

 

An incident in the past

Pastness of time.

 

And I walk into a coffee shop

With my mother

And she points to the silver jar

With chocolate fingers of dessert secrets

And I point before

A breath of time

Can register a point

To the chocolate cookie tunneled finger.

 

And it gets passed down

To my dirty fingers

Scarfing and ready

At the grasp of

Pleasure.

 

And I walk home

In the streets of Westwood

With my mother and her stroller.

 

And a cookie

Crumbled

 

In my face.

Happy child photo available from Shutterstock