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

Without a deep internal burst of


That makes a poem.



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



And I walk home

In the streets of Westwood

With my mother and her stroller.


And a cookie



In my face.

Happy child photo available from Shutterstock