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“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
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