Their Profane Mother, Their Busy Mother
I curse under my breath
at the thought of this obligation
or that one, and as I complete a task,
I add one more or a few more, or
someone else adds them to me.
I curse, the big one, the f bomb, and then
I wonder if either of my children heard me,
their profane mother, their busy mother
who always has her hand in too many pots
at once. But maybe this is always how it goes;
maybe my mother, too, swore quietly —
maybe that’s what she meant by smoking.
The LAST PROMPT FOR THIS YEAR at NaPoWriMo.net was to write about something that occurs over and over. I don’t think this poem will be everyone’s cup of Constant Comment, but maybe you’ll get it if you, too, are kind of tightly wound and busy, and/or are a parent.