WOULDN’T IT BE NICE
You’re walking near the run-down end of downtown
And you see an old woman selling flowers, hand-picked, maybe worthless weeds,
Or rejects from an uptown florist’s, or stolen from a park someplace;
And she offers some to you and you ignore her as if she didn’t exist - and keep walking.
Then ten paces later you realise it was your own mother
Who you haven’t seen for twenty years.
So you double back incredulously cos last time you saw her she and dad
Were living retired in a small apartment in a nice district and all was ok.
Without a word you put an arm around her and whisk her into the seat of your car
And drive her to your own home, sit her down and give her some coffee,
And help her put her feet up on the sofa:
Arm around her grubby coat shoulder, you listen as she tells you how dad died
And the pension fund collapsed and then she ended up on the street selling
Third rate flowers to pay the rent on some tiny damp squat in the projects.
You tell her her days in that squat are over, and her flower slave-business is finished,
And that she will from now on live with you and you will look after her;
And how you are so horrified about what has happened to her since you last saw her.
She sleeps that night on clean sheets In a warm dry bedroom,
After a late night supper with you.
And her life begins again.
Wouldn’t it be nice? It’s the way it should be....absolutely.
Trouble is, that old flower seller isn’t your mother.
And you keep walking. Naturally enough.
Her own son is drunk somewhere, or living it up in Vegas.
She’s his mother, but she isn’t going to be miraculously found.
Wouldn’t it be nice if you were her son?
Yes, absolutely it would be nice.