by Claire Scott
Each day a new surprise for us kids
who by now are used to most anything
spaghetti flung against the cabinets
sticky strands forming some cryptic language
only she can decipher and she does
close the shades, lock the windows
her sixties Ford somehow in the flower bed
she yelling at some poor soul to avoid the dahlias
for god’s sake as he backs out her car
knitting needles stabbed in the Persian rug
looking like a deranged porcupine
emerging from crimson wool
yesterday the fire department announced
it would no longer respond to
her midnight pleas for Marlboro’s and
jugs of Jim Beam
today she drove through a tollbooth
at sixty miles an hour
“Deadeye Dick” she crows delightedly
as sirens blare behind us
my mother continues to go insane
you’d think she would have
gotten there by now