melissaahowells
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the bean burrito steamed
the boy waited for it to cool while his Mother ignored them both busily she was reading her own cue cards for life all the poor have is their tales all the very rich have is their money and their children or so they think but they ignore them the cues, the clues are all like bread crumb trails both the piles of money and the children eventually may vanish the rich know nothing of mindfulness they don't have their stories remember that part the boy studied his dirty nails and pulled at the trailing seam of his torn shorts impatiently his Mother drum-rolled her well-manicured nails across the table as her crossed leg punted the air beneath her Pucci dress the bean burrito lay cold between them the congealed cheese a kind of symbolic barrier nudging the neglected burrito towards him in disgust she answered to the loud ringtones of "The Andrea True Connection" and turned her back to her son bored the boy found himself near the window there he watched a grey haired woman in a rain poncho with a three-legged yellow dog on a hand-made leash its close, a summer-warm day outside the dog looks thirsty (unconsciously the boy licks his lips) the old woman has a kind lop-sided, reassuring smile he's not quite sure but the dog looks like it might be smiling too his Mother is still talking while she's sorting out Greek olives from her pale limp salad as she punctuates her anger with her salad fork its warm, like the closing of an envelope, outside the boy brings a large glass of cool water an offering for the thirsty yellow dog as he pries open the door the outside warmth fills him the three-legged dog limps over to him grinning its braided leash trailing behind him "M'aam, would your dog like some water?" the boy asks wanting to be helpful "oh, thank you sonny, that's mighty kind of you...say, are you here all by your lonesome?" the boy glances through the double-paned glass taking in a final glimpse of his Mother caught for a moment in the inertia of indecison and the bitterness of of feeling invisible "yes," he pauses, then waiting only slightly, "I believe I am..." Copyright June 7, 2016 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author Meloo Melissa A Howells Tilt-a-World all ideas/rants/poetry/prose are the expressed legal property of this writer writing based on observations, not a true story Andrea True Connection...Disco song in the 70's. words were, more, more, more, how do you like it, how do you like it? LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS WORK AND SITE TITLE Vote for this poem |
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