Dear Mother

Sometimes when I think of things to write,
you tell me to sing,
instead

and the words flow out of me
like my throat's
a pen

that hasn't gotten the chance
to strike paper
just yet.

Maybe someday you'll sit down
and help pour it out
in time

and remembrance.

like the year you learned to dance
but had no one to shred the floors with
until lucky number ten o clock hit
and called for girls' night out

no mother's night in
since father's not a dancer,
he's too tired
for that kind of life.

I'm tired
of plain and simple,
I'll sing you something you can feel.

So I can watch you and happiness tango
into the very soles
of you feet.