I am good at memory
whispering poems my mother learned
by heart in her orphan home — taps
upon the stage in stiff starched dress
while benefactors swamp the seats
& she recites with apt dramatic
gestures the story of a boy destroyed by flame
waiting for his papa on the burning main
a fearsome tearjerker
& folks clap — eyes glistening, run
to choose among the mingy waifs
& perhaps that baby whose mama
passed in childbirth and papa of tb
— so sad too bad — my mother aged
out at 15 & later when I knew
her out of life having in between bequeathed
me the knife-like secret of poems
rife with dramatic gestures,
