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Tyurina Allen
Email: pepperchick@excite.comA CHILDHOOD COMPARED TO A 9-HOUR WORKDAY
Today I gather love like dirty clothes.
Habitual, they are the everyday chores of my late mother.
I remember Her commercial polishes rubbed everything out.
Like love, she complained, I was never bought,
I was natural, from the Asian womb.
She said my thoughts held the secrets of her Ivory dish soap.
She walked up and down the store isles like Christmas garland.
I guess she thought she was too old,
I guess I thought I was too small.
My arms could never hold the heavy watered load,
the drenched flowers, the office paper cutter.
It is what made my paper dolls at two.
They smiled, my little orphaned friends.
Counting, they made everything understandable.
Growing, I know I will never understand.
The workaholic hours, the heavy unpaid bills.
Meanwhile my husband sits on Teamsters watching Jenny Craig.
Alcoholic, I know I am always drowsy,
I confess drowsiness is what keeps me fed.
Under the thumbnails I do the best I can.
Under the thumbnails I do the best I can.