Pammy

Your son is going home, his Papa waves bye bye, they leave you all alone, birds thrum their tune, you lie in a lemon light, the lover comes back soon, put something on the stove, crickets sing in the half night, salt rims the bowl, a secret toil’s within you, scientists bemoan a global high, your mother plays on tubes, has she ever known, smoking her Camel Lites, a life not chasing numbers, if there’s any virtue, she’s steady as she flies, doesn’t suffer any fools, says this is her time