i sat with the company of an absent mind
and while my brother bent over paper,
his hands carefully making strokes with a pencil
i watched and heard my mother ask him,
"what are you writing?"
and i thought, "when will you ever ask me?"

when i was hunched over my chicken-scratch-filled
notebook, you didn't even bother looking.
when i proudly read the feelings i turned into words,
where was your question: "what are you writing?"

i think i just missed when back then she read my stories
and waved it at my father.
i think i miss the grins that came after.
i think i miss when i wrote and you'd
find my childish plot and still think it's great.

but ma, ive written 40 poems this year
and when im hunched over another
chicken-scratch-filled piece of paper,
i want to hear the question again -
"what are you writing?"