Poetry / Review Me Please

My mother was German
She smoked Turkish cigarettes
and flicked a zippo lighter
for about nine hours a day
at a laundry mat
where people would drop
off their dirt
and expect her to clean it
and even fold it – at the creases.

My father, is dead.
he overdosed one day
probably
afraid, alone,
waiting by the wall phone
in the kitchen
where I found him
waiting for my mother
to come home
it wasn’t that she was too busy
folding for those quarter bags
but because they were
both tied up
like nooses at the arms
and I guess one day
he hit the wrong vein
air
air  the very component
we need to breathe – killed my father
not to mention
his narcotics disease  - disease my ass

so my mom came home
and yelled at me,
why why why didn’t I call the police?
I tried to explain
they are the ones to arrest you
and she hit me on both my ears
pounded on my chest
and said why didn’t I call to save him
why didn’t I call the police
and I keep telling her
he needed an ambulance
and the truth really is
he needed a coroner.

So you get offended
easily
and you write your pretty
poetry
thinking we should all
stroke, pet, lick each other like felines
(who’s gay now pal?)
Let’s seed the ones out –
the impure – the unworthy writing races
if you think I’m such a jerk
why don’t you review my work?

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