Some days it’s just too much
to live out these years in this
borrowed mom body,
saggy, aching, sleepy, grumpy
slumpy, rough, sometimes blind
and falling apart,
when it wants to spend countless hours
strolling through museums,
curled up on picnic blankets, reading Bronte
again and again, or simply talking
into the earliest hours about art and
good writing instead of sitting on these
bloody highways, making sure there are snacks
for sports practice, making meal plans
and dreaming of old boyfriends
Or maybe that quiet night at a jazz club
a million years ago.
Instead these wrinkles are worn like a
badge, proud earned.
Even the dreamiest recesses of the mind
know that these days of childhood
They’ll end too soon.
And even though there might be time
to go and gym and put on makeup,
these carpool confessionals,
and midnight bedtime rituals,
are becoming much less plentiful.
So the dreams of the jazz club
and a restful evening