Sometimes life has a way of reminding you how little control of things you actually have. Such was this case this weekend, when my almost-91 year old Mom fell and (classically) broke her hip. That was Saturday night, just before Mother's Day. As a result, I have been in scenic Stroudsburg, PA since Monday morning, when she had (very successful) surgery at the Lehigh Valley Medical Center here.
As a result of these events I have not been able to produce the Suburbo for this week but have, in the interim, been working on a couple of cryptic poems that I thought I'd submit as a "place holder," if you will.
I hope you find them interesting, or amusing, or even "meaningful," in some way. Thanks for reading.
Mother's Day 2018
An overcast, rain-impending morning . . .
Greeted by a pile of (human!) vomit in the parking lot
as I walked the dog.
An old friend's Mom passed yesterday
which is bad timing, I guess,
or just Friday the 13th on Sunday?
As I'm getting groceries a text
from my brother
"Mom fell and can't move.
Waiting for an ambulance."
Happy F'ing Mother's Day
The Stroud Mall
This sarcophagus for capitalism sits
atop a hill . . .
Septuagenarian wraiths chat in the
Food Court, over coffee and lemonade.
Specters haunt the corridors and shops,
with thousand-year (shopper's) stares,
A few random souls camp on benches,
across from the CinePlus,
waiting for the Early Show.
The contoured metal (garage like) door
has shuttered "The Bon-Ton"
(where Mom loved to shop)
Lonely clerks make busywork in
their shops, the silence
reverberating around them.
Old men shuffle, looking lost,
Once thriving, prosperous,
with overflow parking,
The sarcophagus now sits,
in its own empty desert
of long-forgotten glory.