It is my regretful endeavour
to inform you
Mrs. Rose K
must die.
That, somehow,
you must find the strength
to listen to her, let her go.
The funeral must be planned,
the casket satin inlaid.
Her Grandchildren must be sung to sleep
every night as usual.
You will point to a star
older than life itself
and tell the children
it is Grandma,
and the baby will learn
that she was the tooth fairy.
Flowers must be bought
and you will return to your goth days
to wear black this weekend,
and share wet smiles with yourself
at JC Penney's
in the dressing room mirror -
Oh how she grounded you when she found
black lipstick in your purse
covered in a condom.
You may now leave the house
and not worry
that she will be dead when you return
because she won't be there.
But I will give you tonight
to rant and rave
and call me a tryant
because I killed your mother.
Signed,
the Inept Intern.
No comments:
Post a Comment