Guilt
by Road
She's deserving of my guilt at this post midnight hour,
this patient and open-minded crucible of time's onslaught.
I feel an abridgement of sensible-ness, a violator of
any and all commonsense Winston-Churchillian faith, dogma,
and wartime dedication to the War Bond effort and USO big
band dance charm gracing the altar of our troops.
She doesn't deserve this post-war, post-beat, post-Soviet
disturbance---me, keying the garage door and the house alarm
at three a.m.!
But she's been through it all before so many times.
She's my mother, and I enter with apprehension:
as I hear her in the master bedroom adjacent to the laundry
cubicle merely...
(what was on my mind, in my heart?)...
snoring.
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