The morning sunrise, red, aflame,
awoke to play the same old game,
outside some humming birds agree
the song will always be the same.
The morning paper goes unread,
for headlines while I'm still in bed,
the news is not so good to me,
not one reports I may be dead.
My Mother calls me on the phone,
she says I shouldn't live alone,
she knows a girl who'd love to be,
in love with me, and it's well known.
Ma says this girl's a lady poor,
but not a spinster at my door,
she'd wash and clean and cook and stuff
and stick by me when things got tough.
So I give in, give her a call,
ask her to marry me and all,
she says ok, I buy the ring,
and then I realize--it's spring.
Ma talks to her twice every day
to thank her for--what can I say--
saving me from oblivion,
into the misery I'm in.
Ma's been a spinster having kids,
too many years, that's how it is,
But like all Moms, she just can't stand
a son who's single to life's end.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet