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Wild Mama

by Channie Greenberg

Wild Mama sneaks
Around when no one’s home.
She leaves the bathroom door unlocked,
Picks up scattered paper debris, soiled socks,
Empty water bottles, even tends to dried-out plants.

Sometimes, that gal pal makes
Chicken soup with noodles or rice.
Tosses grown kids’ towels in the laundry,
Dials up doctors, dentists, hair stylists; makes appointments,
For offspring too preoccupied with sass, work, school, to convey.

Mostly, though, she sighs aloud, once more,
Over photo albums, some plain, some recorded.
Her office remains filled with pre-school detritus and treasures,
Clutter from elementary, middle, high-school moments, vestiges
Of eras when nursing, cuddles, beddy-bye songs solved everything.

Copyright © 2019 by Channie Greenberg

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