A GOOD DAY
My mother was a beauty
and dressed it. One Sunday
the preacher quipped,
“Even Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.”
Now she’s 76. Thin and hairless,
she wears a cheap wig, dirty tennis shoes.
She sees poorly, drives worse.
One Monday, she hits a parked car
in the cancer patient lot. A day later,
police call. Somebody caught
her license plate number.
I’m surprised she tells this story on herself.
It’s not her way. Then I hear that old tone
in her voice. “The witness described me
as an attractive blond,” she says,
“in her fifties.“