Mommy

Here in this land of grocery stores piled high
with fruit of every color, all of it out of season—
you want none of it.

“We need to go outside, we need to go outside!”
you wail. Indeed we do.
We need the rain to stop falling. We need
a better forecast. We need the sky, our sneakers,
and lots of grass for running in.
But, in our pantry:
an onion, two sweet potatoes, a package of noodles.
In our fridge: a carton of milk gone sour.
And so, the grocery store. Mommy’s doing her best,
I tell you, though Mommy’s not one of those mommies
on TV. Cradling rolls of paper towels,
shaking their heads at their husbands, and wiping up
all their spills. What could satisfy Mommy?

Nothing she can get here, not even
these mangoes, slightly bruised, so juicy, on sale.
Mommy wants Daddy to come home.
Mommy wants somebody else to make dinner.
Mommy wants to stop
calling herself Mommy.