Seventy-five years, Mom
three quarters of a century long lived
and lovely.
You’ve bridged the race gap,
the generation gap
the missile gap
the gender gap.
You walked through the valley of death
free of fear,
an interesting experience.
You married Leonard, a gentle Virgo,
a man of moods and melodies
. . . a man of letters.
Together you danced the night away
on Seattle’s silver lining
until pitter patter,
patter pitter,
dirty diapers,
love children.
i am primogeniture.
A black bully pushed me down
a steep and scary hill
on my tricycle.
Mommy swooned
at the sight of my bloody nose.
My guardian angel cringed
as brother Lynn arrived,
crying “Tommy dood it! Tommy dood it!”
to our spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child daddy.
Little did we know he would become
mayor of Mt. Baker Ridge,
town raconteur.
Fair sister Marilyn Anne then
blessed our growing family,
Daddy’s girl, Tommy’s nemesis.
She grew so fast,
split so soon . . .
Begat Atwood, le petit giant.
Marilyn paints sunny murals
of dreamy city landscapes
in dreary San Francisco.
Spider Baby, Peter Michael,
now appeared,
huggable little guy,
grew tall and wise.
Peter, the rock of generations.
Momma
seventy-five-year survivor
in a rock-and-roll world of contradictions
a world of radioactive sunsets.