Somewhere in the Simon
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.
"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."
where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.
He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.
It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.
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