The Poem My Mother Liked

“THE POEM MY MOTHER LIKED” smoking a cigarette in the bathroom at 4 p.m. I wonder what my son is doing; I wonder if court will run smooth. I sit in the midst of my greatest trial, trying to keep from losing it. my son knows I’m gone, I know if he could talk, the fight against the darkness would be clean. you sit and notice the things you never saw: the toilet paper hanging, the deodorant, the razor, the aftershave, the comb, the toothbrush and paste, the ray of sunlight tunnel visioned on the center of a wall rarely paid attention to. everything you used daily because it’s always the same. then you look into the mirror, you don’t know who you see. you’d give anything to go back and confront the moments of darkness but you know they weren’t dealt with out of good intention. the road to Hell is paved with good intention and yet, we continue to be as naturally good as we can be. Bukowski said: “You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life sometimes. The more you learn to do it, the more light there will be.” I guess that’s why I’ve prayed more than any other time in my life. waiting and hoping God will respond in my hours of death. if God could talk, what would be said to me? time will only tell. as I sit on the floor, my son waits for Friday. I wait for God to respond when I’ve only known him to be unresponsive. will it be through my voice, a judges voice or my son’s voice? will it be through paperwork, through nights in jail or through her when it catches up to her? I don’t know. I wait… what choice do I have? I sit in the bathroom with this cigarette, smoking, praying, all while dying. three days away from 3 p.m. will remind me why God hasn’t taken me in all these years. with God in that reality, I wonder if me being here after all these years is His response. who’s to say? I know I’m still here though because I’ve asked God not for happiness, just a little less pain. By: Chicano Eddie 7-28-2016