Our cuckoo clock wouldn’t
and when my mother turned it over
a wing fell off.
Teary-eyed, she asked me to glue
back the feathers,
then she sang, "Tyger, tyger
Said "The tiger’s me. I’d like to
put on my red dress
and go dancing at The Green Frog,
but your dad’s still jangling
He worked nightwatch at the auto
My mother worked a broom under
where, she swore, armies of
spiders plotted overthrow.
Of what? I didn’t know. My head
in a comic,
she walked by, whispered, "That
will turn your brain
to oatmeal." She put on a record,
said, "I’ll teach you
to dance." A violin sounded off
key, the needle
etching a deeper groove on
Where crescendo should’ve moved
me, I pouted,
backing away. She danced back and
cigarette between her lips.
Though she wasn’t wearing her red
she danced and smoked and labored
holding her arms out in a circle.