10,036. TO THE MAMA

TO THE MAMA

This is kitchen Semolina, I'm thinking about.

A far cry from the jagged edge it is  -  in a

child's singsong language, like learning 'Froggy

Went a'Courtin' from a scratchy old disc instead

of Mom's voice. I heard it a hundred times if I

heard it once. And it was always best live.

-

Now? The ice caps are melting, and things are

afloat. This they tell me, but I've no proof, and

a proper man disbelieves anything he cannot

check himself. It may be April in Spain, yes,

but I don't really know their seasons, 
and I'd best stay aloof.

-

I think she knew the Spanish tongue well  -  

the old manner of the Spanish language, not 

the fast and laughing crap thy speak now. All

those Gauchos on the run, they have nothing

on Cervantes' Don Quixote. Believe that.

-

I don't know where she learned it, and I do 

know that she fractured French, by contrast. 

But shouldn't being good at one mean good 

at the other; equal anyway, learning the one 

tongue or the other? I never asked about it,

but knew it hadn't just come from the streets.

-

Basketball language wears Guinea tees and

a fractured cap. This was something 

far better than that.