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For no reason
He has just pushed
My mother over
In the kitchen
Onto the carpet
That covers the stone floor
That I felt between my knees
Between 1965 and 1975 —
The carpet with
The swirling patterns
That she had earlier
And unnecessarily
Hoovered
Vacuumed —
The ambulance
Is already acclerating
Over the canal bridge,
Scattering long minutes
With his brilliant siren . . .
My mother
She is 77 year old.
It is Sunday. A warm
Sunday afternoon.
Why? I ask. Why?
It is what I do,
He replies —
What I do best.