My mother asked:
"Write me a poem for your old lady,
So I can hang it on the fridge."

I couldn't tell her no-- how could I say no,
To my mother?
My mother and I sit across each other
In this corner jazz cafe on 31st Street.
She sips her latte as I scramble to write some words for her
On this napkin.
Occasionally she looks up at me and stares with her green eyes
Staring, staring staring at me--this paper, her coffee.

I don't even think what to write for her,
I just write, write write---and write
The poem that will be on her fridge door of 30 years and 9 months.
Here is the poem I wrote for my dear mother of 57
I lay it on her lap and bolt out the door without hesitation and smile with content:

*You're as dark as your coffee,
And cruel as the winter wind.
I'm not your child.