Mom gets up and puts on a shirt from the chair--
it was worn only a few hours yesterday, so it's okay.
Mom gets up and toasts the day old bread for breakfast.
She spends the morning on the sewing machine
hemming cut-offs into shorts,and fixing
the rear end split in the baby's pants.
The old cuffs become Barbie cocktail dresses.
Around eleven forty she remembers there's nothing
to cook for dinner, because it's the last day
before the last day of the month--
two days til pay day.
She rummages in the bottom of the airy light
fridge, among the crumbs,
bum sticking out like a flag while she talks
She brings out, half of an ancient onion,
half of cabbage, still good, a bowl
of drippings from the Father's Day baked
Chicken, and some dry baby carrots no one will eat.
Mom skims the fat, trims the veggies, and throws them
into the old broken crockpot without a handle.
Then Mom raids the freezer for some frozen white
beans, tiny pieces of lamb, and some
They all go in. And she starts shaking in
spices so fast her arms are like
hummingbird wings. The parsley
flies off the shelf as though summoned.
I count the bay leaves: two.
In goes my leftover tomato soup, olive oil,
lemon, salt, and a few grinds of pepper.
Who knows if it will taste good?
And who knows why she was rejected
from Kansas City Freecycle?