Posieden

My mother’s pain followed me
	that Summer,
	like a June bug descending.
	in a misty July reign.
	Pervasive like a sieve.
	Her inertia was infectious.
	A muddle as I breathed,
	in line, I was,
	for a movie I
	saw a million times
	but
	never got to see...

	Gene Hackman combed his hair
	to one side to relate a
	tail of whoa!
	Whoa!
	Whoa, hold on there Gene --
	it all falls from grace,
	from providence!

	They placed you on
	that set in a bad
	turtle-neck sweater,
	such nasty foul weather,
	tumbled that ship to flounder.
	A mood turned upside
	down.
	But you didn’t
	drown a sunder.
	
	I did.
	Awash in love,
	from someone above;
	it swelled to pull
	me under.

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