A basket of sorrows is found in the laundromat
by two children waiting for their mother 
who’s broke and alone.
As thin as the cigarette hanging from her lips
she sits and stares like a blank screen
at her progeny made of steel
tempered by her anger. 
Her cell phone rings but she doesn’t answer.

She remembered the cremation of a neighbor’s mother.
Later in their visit to a group of friends, she joked,
“Tammy’s mother was cooked in a 1200 degree oven.”
She went for laughs but emptied the room.
Tammy never spoke to her again.

The children yell, “Mama, there’s a basket full of sorrows!”
The mother yells back, “Get that thing away from me!”
After a moment of thought,
she commands, “Bring it here.”
Her son obeys and places it at her feet.

With smeared mascara
she glares at the child.  
“Go.” 
He drops his head,
straightens his back
and walks away with clenched fists.

She stares at the sorrows who call her by name.
Resembling Medusa’s hair
they slither like eels against one another.
She acts deaf but listens
and lights another cigarette.

Their murmurs echo advice from 
a chorus of women, lost themselves,     
who work to set her right.
                        

At one time he was the perfect front yard neighbor
doing a little gardening
with an easy word as you walked by.

But now he’s stiff 
no longer coddled,
and he feels it 
like a partially frozen mackerel
laying on ice
wondering what happened 

to his life with friends 
constantly moving
through rolling waves
weaving and dodging
in perfect synchrony.


It was a net cast large
and barely visible.
They kept swimming
until it tightened 
and pulled up.
There was no escape.

They were free until powerless.
This is how it feels when one
reaches down into another’s world
and grabs the catch
that feeds the appetites.

Only one step away
from the net that 
turns water into ice.