Five dollars, mama, he’d say and, because it was cheaper
than wondering why, you gave it. Then ten. Then twenty.
I did the best I could, you’d say and, because that seemed
to cover a multitude of sins, he learned the song by heart.
This is for my mama, he’d say, and knock it back in reverence
the first few times. By last call, it came down to, That bitch.
This time, you’d say, and he’d promise sobriety and sunshine
and you believed because believing is easier and he would say
I love you, mama, which would get you to pay his rent or lights
and he might even cook you a repast of all of his favorite things
More money, mama, he’d say because most of his favorite things
cost more than you gave and gave less than he wanted, or needed.
This is for my mama, he said when the rest of you died away
and nobody heard or cared and it hit and hurt, That bitch.