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Twenty years elapsed since Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 5th, 2004

Often these days
the following genuine sentiment
Matthew Scott Harris
doth wish to share one son,
cuz twenty years after mother succumbed
courtesy of terminal illness
that ravaged her body.

I still reckon how yours truly
shrugged off proffering
tender loving care
within whose womb,
this sole prodigal son wannabe born,
thus shouldered with self scorn
and now two decades later,
the grief and regret not so heavily worn,
nevertheless I consider myself 
less familiar to thy mama 
than her hats (no surprise, 
she got known 
as the hat – trick - lady) on a rack 
(built by papa) 
that donned yorn head
and trumpeted the presence 
of a free spirit.

He (the writer of these words) clearly recounts
as if her death occurred yesterday...,
(when all mine troubles
moost definitely not far away)
last remaining grains sands of time.

Imagine an hourglass
where fine granules
trickle from one to another
(upper to lower) bulbed chamber
just prior when coroner decrees death,
yet an opportunity prevailed
wherein said self (me) chose
NOT to stand vigil at deathbed
of she begat
an older and younger daughter
(mine sibling sisters).

Last breath(s) expelled while mama
tethered to machines,
one or more helped diminish
agonizing, depressing, and writhing
pain and discomfort
racked once fitness
and health conscious
industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,
which malignant terminal illness
(no joke) riddled a former robust
Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor
(think approximately 
threescore and ten years past),
whose flirtatious demeanor
instantaneously caught fancy of handsome
twenty something papa at his prime.

Before rigor mortis quickly
stole precious lifeblood, and
final minutes ticked away until
countdown to... realm of absent consciousness
scant moments before subtle transition
slipped our beloved mother into deadzone...,
neither final adieu, caress, grief...,
nor poem written...
never communicated to deceased,
not an iota of sorrowful lament
bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished...
over lifeless body (mommy dearest)
relegated limp suddenly cold stone body,
where morgue aged (mortgaged) corpse
interestingly enough principally 
kept in cold storage
(despite aversion to frigid air
exhibited by mama)
preparatory to cremation process.

Rather... suppressed resentment
exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane
(partial listed then abode -
Matthew Scott Harris,
plus his family resided)
by mister recalcitrant,
felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection
regarding once young bride,
(who smothered cingular heir insync
with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris),
cuz he (yours truly overstayed
livingsocial under same roof as parents,
which happenstance (in tandem 
with the Leiper's preference 
for their demesne plus 
one hundred acre estate called Glen Elm
before being purchased by – 
I believe a local 
within Southeastern Montgomery County, 
Pennsylvania realtor 
named Donald Neilson, but do not quote me) 
situated at 324 Level Road.

Both thee aforementioned
supposed biological guardians
railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally)
yours truly, upon mine eighteenth birthday,
when great expectations greatly exacerbating
emotionally hard times,
which ill suited poet de jure
experienced, brickbats rained
down upon these
(considerably mooch younger) lovely bones
whose anger (mine) smoldered
linkedin to constant epithets of expletives
out the mouths of those who begat me,
subsequently their livid with rage
tsunami festered within every
holy Mole (he) molecule
within mine atomized corporeal being
manifesting itself as deprivation
to embrace dear mama
attended at hospital with 
both non twisted sisters;
one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey
and the younger one staked out
modest home within Bend, Oregon,
meanwhile thee grim reaper
did patiently scythe before soon
nonchalantly heading back 
to his old curiosity shop,
a rather bleak house, I now conclude.
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