Time to put the water on the stove,
Momma’s on her way home.
Her drive is never long enough or short enough, always uncomfortable and always unknown.
She’s coming home and if the pasta isn’t going,
She’ll lose her mind.
She’s doing her best,
Don’t forget she’s a person too.
She works hard so you can work harder.
She saves money so you can spend it.
You say “screw capitalism” and she says “how do you think I gave you the spaghetti in your hands?”
You yell when she says no,
You nod when she says yes.
You’re so strong, so smart, so glorious in all your beauty.
She cries when you walk across the stage.
“Make the pictures quick.”
Recipes and phone calls and late night chips and salsa in the living room.
She tells you not to trust the boy with the tattoos and voluminous hair,
And you tell her she doesn’t understand.
She tells you what you deserve when you find out he was never faithful.
She doesn’t say I told you so.
She answers you at 2 am and lets you talk.
How sick is sick and how long is long?
How much time?
I’m sorry, mom.
