Every Week Our Mother Threw Together a Stew of Leftovers So Old They Could Talk

We forgive you, Terrance.
We never expected
You to listen to us.

We’d rather you didn’t.
Even now we’re thinking,
What a catastrophe

It would be if someone
Recognized this shout-out
To the poem in question,

And decided to call
It to your attention.
So why would we address

You directly, Terrance,
Who don’t even know us
Who don’t even know you?

We don’t know. There’s something
To the poem in question
Moving around through us.

All day we’ve been stewing
In words mostly likely us,
The lines of our era

Wandering within us.
We’ll digest under dirt.
We’ll take what’s left with us.