Somewhere in Norway
a small herd of goats gather
to reminisce about the encounter
with us, an American woman and her daughter.
Oh, they are laughing their little
goatees off–
And then there is the inn keeper
at the Wienerschnitzel stop
who still smells schnapps near
the corner table–a table he
no longer decorates with plastic
flowers in little pots–
Of course, Eureka has not produced
anything quite as grand as Avenue Q–
and we, those same two women,
mother and daughter, just happened
to be there to see it.
And those vortexes in Sedona? Wow.
I’m not sure Long Island was ready
for us–oh, Billy may be making
Lanyards for his mother,
but did he ever make a birthday cake,
out of bread for her? No, he is
no baker, for sure.
Rainforests of Hawaii,
Lake Tahoe’s blue depths,
Puebloan’s cliff homes of Mesa Verde,
Totem carvers of Yukon’s Teslin,
You taught me there is a yarn store
near all of these places.
But that is not all. Yes, of course,
there could be a sappy poem in here
somewhere, but it just wouldn’t be right
to pen “I love you” just-might-somehow
seem trite. So, this little witness
will just have to stand–
To travel together through life
With you as my mother, my guide,
tops all mountains we’ve crested,
all islands we’ve hopped,
all good plays–
and bad ones we’ve witnessed.
Beautiful mother, forever know
that if I could weave a potholder
or knit a sweater or paint
a porcelain dog at Petroglyphs
for you–it would not turn out very well.
So, pack your bags, let’s hit the road.
Oh, and let’s bring Siri,
shall we?
Word Play 