A.M.W.  1/7/1900–4/14/1993

My mother loved Elvis.

Coming from Manhattan to Mashpee

she’d pour a slug of Bailey’s Irish Cream

and close the door to her room.

Sounds of gospel rock and cigarette smoke

let us know she’d settled in.

My mother loved to dance

but she married a man who loved

gin rummy and schmoozing.

She lived a long time after he died.

After dinner, she’d tap dance in her little silver shoes

singing “They called the lady Louisville Lou.”

My mother loved puzzles.

A permanently set up card table held

a jumble of pieces. Their jigsaws

found partners and over weeks

a landscape emerged. The puzzle complete,

she penciled answers in stacks of crosswords.

My mother’s dream was to be on TV.

She saw an old woman in an ad that she made

famous “Where’s the beef?” and thought

I can do that. My sister got her a head shot.

She went to a cattle call, panicked at the mob,

refused to audition, and walked away from fame.

Wrong move, Ma. If you’d auditioned, you’d

still be on TV hawking someone’s product,

and I’d still be able to see and to hear you.