Barry A. Lanier (Georgia)
She covets her pocketbooks and has no two alike,
And every month she goes to Belk's to buy a new one.
At 88, she still drives, with her huge sunglasses,
Making right turns like an 18-wheeler does.
She drives an average of 10 miles and hour,
Including stops when she remembers to she does.
Mom loves to attend all the social functions in town,
Especially the showers and weddings of the smitten young.
Armed with her pocketbook she'll sashay over to the buffet,
Fill her pocketbook with treasure, pigs-in-a-blankets,
Watercress and pimiento cheese sandwiches
All of which she'll eat later but she never does.
She always told me she grew up in the depression,
and a responsible mother would never turn down food.
They all harden and calcify like the plaque in her arteries,
Acquiescent to the fact, I empty her pocketbooks weekly.
'Mom, when are you going to quit driving I asked? '
'Oh about the same time that they quit having weddings and luncheons! '
Comments about this poem (Beware<b>(Author Favorite) by Barry A. Lanier )
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