Mother
I don’t think she ever drank
gin in the morning.
Perhaps she should have.
Her oatmeal stuck
to your ribs
and anything else it touched.
Her apron,
the ultimate multitasking tool,
wiped up after….
well….
everything.
God, she looked beautiful.
Housecoat,
inverted socks for slippers,
a cigarette smoldering
on the kitchen table,
four kids building
oatmeal castles.
She hated the new
wringer washing machine.
It had developed a taste
for her arm.
Gin in the morning?
wouldn’t have helped.
©2/16/2018
submitted to – Gin in the Morning – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Julia Ward
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