Wreaths... Poem by RIC BASTASA

in sleep
your mama
comes

in her middle
age
she is still
strong with
lots of money

your younger
brother who married
early
comes with a
toddler and begs
for money

you stare at
mama
and the fear is
there

she has to choose
whom she loves
and she gives money
to that scoundrel
who laughs at you
and leaves
you with all
contempt....

and you wake up
to this lies
at 2 o'clock in
the morning
sweating and
grasping for breath
wanting to buy
wreaths....