PART TWO

I felt a poem yesterday.

I think it was about my mother.  She swore like a pirate.

How was it that she could swear a blue streak, first at Nixon later at Bush, while rolling pie dough?

Let's not forget Reagan.  We can never forget Reagan.

Poured out like rhubarb filling landing plop-plop-plop,

Shit-fuck-horse manure-piss-face-brown-nosing-SHIT-bastards!

Paint-burning shrieks echoing up the plaster walled stairwell to scare teenagers out of slumber, fearful that MS-13 were having their way with her downstairs.

"No, it's just your grandmother trying to open a can."

I admired her.  You always knew where she stood and you knew she cared.

I swear like a third-grader, running across Union Street yelling FUCK without a clue.

Time to clear the table.

"Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie".