working to calculate the ceiling tiles,
mouth open in stupefaction,
I hear the maddening stomping
of Mother coming down the hall.
The tempo and the volume demonstrate
clearly: I am in deep shit.
The standard fist
slams the kitchen counter.
I ponder hiding,
fear the sound of her thunderous
pounding coming down the stairs,
beating them as a bass drum,
question whether or not she has
that overweight cast-iron pan.
But she died so very long ago,
and there is no floor above me at work.
Maybe she is here.
Terror haunts me, but I love her still.
When will she let go?