Momma sits at the kitchen table with her head buried in her hands,
dressing gown open exposing the defilement of her once holy temple.
On the table before her sits a lit cigarette set to slow burn
smoke ascending like a sacrificial offering to some long lost god.
She cries puddles of tears destroying perfectly applied make-up
but, she's still pretty in my eyes.
Soon there will be a knock at the door and she'll send me out to play.
"Don't come back here until I call ya", she scolds me as she scoots me out the door.
"I know momma", I reply, as I slowly descend the steps secretly wishing I could be the man to provide for and protect us. Though I'm young, I know what my momma does and why she does it. But, I love her; love her like no other and I always will.
(C) Tamia C. Timberlake 2008
.
Recent Comments