Mama

She’s dying as I write this sentance.

A grand old dame that lived a life-

A mother, a daughter, a widow, an actress

She is a piece of of the local fabric

And that fabric will soon be torn

And we will be torn with it.

We call her mama

And she lets me too

Even though I am not

Officially her son.

I am not prepared for her death

And death does not care

But her children care

Her stepchildren care

And I too care, feeling from the outside

As she lies in hospice

Not wanting too many people there

Perhaps she will have a last cigarette,

Enjoying the thing that is killing her in the end

And perhaps it will be great

And she will fall asleep

No more coughing

And we can begin

To rip.

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