I love you, Mom,
As you panhandle for golden lollies
and scab cigarettes off passersby.
You were beautiful, once.
You were as pretty as the faded floral dress,
hanging, gimballed, off your bony shoulders.
Unlike most sons, I see you every day.
I watch you bleach and fade and loosen.
I watch your flowers go a little more gray.
I pass by your usual bench
as I walk to work.
You still wear the fuzzy, mint green slippers,
From a Christmas,
eight years ago.
You occasionally bark crude solicitations at the young men.
Yet, you never solicit me.
Even, if your milky eyes only perceive
a motion blur of pinstripes and briefcases and silver wrist watches.
You never bum a smoke.
You never ask for change.
You never say, “Thank you,”
when I press a fifty into your thin hand.
I love you, Mom.