I am becoming my mother
billowing belly, parchment skin,
hair bristling like a puffed porcupine
        who cares

plaster thin strands with bobby pins
and stay the course, wear old
sweats with jelly stains

or maybe leftover spaghetti
a crooked shirt, buttons hanging
from loose threads like baby spiders

looking like I just walked
out of the dumpster on the corner
of Sixth and Lexington
        who cares

untouched coffee cups
scattered like an army in retreat
floating skins of curdled cream

only one task a day,
either buy tomato soup or take out the trash
either water the plant or wipe the counter

the clock set back a few minutes each day
to more fully savor evening cocktails
a pile of ta-ta tablets before bed

I am becoming my mother
here’s her glass, her cup, her bottle of pills
but mother, you are dead