Every mother deserves a song
Written for her by a son
It’s the least we can do
After all they’ve given up
And all they’ve been through
Better now than after she’s gone
Kathy was always my biggest fan
Shrieking go! jeff go! as she
Raced up and down the touchline
Of the soccer pitch when I was seven
That first game was my actual christening,
When I heard my given name for the first time
And realized I needed to become that….
Couple of clarifying points:
We called it a “field” back then and “sideline”
Not “pitch” or “touchline”
We were basic
We ate leftovers
Did Saturday morning chores
I wore polyester sweats under my green shorts
With white stripes down the sides
Orange slices at halftime
Once, mom brought Shasta
As the post game drink
Even though the coach
Was a regional sales rep for Coca-Cola
It was a lot cheaper
And we didn’t have shit.
No one would have noticed
If not for the Steven, the coach’s prick son
Nothing since has changed
She’s still rooting
For me to be my best
Just not so screechingly.
I haven’t exactly had the world’s
Biggest cheering section throughout my life
(to be perfectly honest)
And when she’s gone the bleachers
Will be even quieter;
An empty seat looming
Down in the front row
With the game still on
And me out on the field,
Improbably still playing
Because what else
Am I supposed to do?
I don’t see her as often as I should
And when I do we don’t talk much,
At least not too meaningfully
The best I can do is hold a seashell
To her eyes and try to describe what I hear
Most of what I say to her
Loses half its meaning on the way
Even this poem is only half written
I’ve spent half my life pretending
I didn't notice her expectant gaze—
Playing the part of the very busy good boy
With important things to do.
But I've spent the other half
Slipping out emergency exits
Of once desired places
I didn’t want to be in anymore,
Running down dark haunted alleys
Gathering enough discarded fragments
Of unexpressed love to put in her poem.
This is the half I’m still writing
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