My mother's
at the sink,
doing washing
or washing up,
I think.

My old man
made her cry
earlier that day,
but she’s humming now,
so must be OK.

I watch her
as kid's do,
study how
she moves her hands
to work and such,
but the old man
did not care
or do as much.  

My mother's
drying dishes,
eyes about to cry,
I look away
wondering
what or why?

My mother's
dead now,
laid to rest
with Jesus
or God or both
amongst the best.