The Memory of Me

July 22, 2008
smoke rises to the ceiling
painting it a dusky hue
a tip of ash falls to the ground,
unoticed by anyone
t.v. blares, dishes unwashed, cat uncleaned
she raises that stick toward her mouth
sucking in its cancerous gases
a hagging cough, a scorched throat
displaces nothing
and I stand staring at what I could be
what I dread to be
my mother, survivor of nothing, but failed dreams, lost hope
just a tip of ash waiting to fall

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