Lunch

I am ten
Off on my
Birthday to
Lunch with my
Mother in St. Louis
At a department store
Cafe having a burger and
Fries ogling the other diners
As we sibs only eat out on our
Birthday as such treats are rare
But all the more enjoyed and as
We drive home to Belleville
On the bluffs in Illinois we
Pass a small house of
A poet who wrote on
His son’s death as
A child which my
Mother recites
To me from
Memory
Which
I still
Remember
About the child
Placing his toy soldier
And his teddy bear by his
Bed and never waking up and
The toys steadfast loyalty waiting
For his return and the sound of his
Voice but I am only ten unaware
Of all my mother’s lost babies
Never brought to full term
Though I am aware of
Her Jewish relatives
Who will not let her
Into their homes
As she has a
Gentile for a
Husband
Though
Her
Father
Accepts
Her decision
So if she at times
Is a bit sentimental
I understand why still
Aware that sentimentality
Is a mark of those hardened
By life to what appears to be a
Callus attitude but is really
A survivor trait never to
Care too much to lose
What may be lost a
Trait I see in folks
On the frontier
A caution to
Be ready to
Lose what
We most
Cherish
And to
Move
On
A lesson I
Have learned.
When Hawkeye
Does not bury his
Massacred friends
As it would give away
His group’s position to
The Indians he says they
Stay where they lay which
Sentiment my mother makes
Into a joke by saying “Tonto,
Afraid the Lone Ranger
Will not recognize
Him in his long
Underwater ...”
A nonsense
Phrase to
Avoid an
Emotion
Too
Painful
That stays
Where it lays.
And then we laugh.