Not have been my saviour
without socks -
and off white shirts.
Maybe cause of her pasta stains,
or overwork.

Thin brown locks, and
thick hard words.
Cross off your lists and
dot your T's. Life might
**** us over. But it
won't take her
sharp wits. Blunt
force for intelligence,
lovely soft kindness,
mistaken for
fatal generosities.

You saw no reflection
good enough for telling
your greatest story.
The way a story
"ought to be told".

That's why you had a daughter,
who became a writer. Cause
it always ends up good enough
for both of us,
when a pen's involved.