She wore a bonnet of significant bees
A fleece of fantastic fleas
She knew black beans and pintos
From her lentils and her peas
She didn’t walk on water
But she glided over nails
Which were strewn across the floor
From rusty timeworn pails
She loved the smell of smoke
But disdained the smell of cinder
She met your father Satan
On the devil’d own site Tinder
You told her happy mother’s day
She said son I am fictional and abstract
You infer you own responsivities
From how you think I act
So hold tight to your nostalgia
Or quietly feed your rage
I am not your icon or advisor
I am never your blueprint or cage.
Gene G. McLaughlin 2020
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