Mother and son of bitch –

She had a drug-addicted son of a bitch son
His Y-giving father filled-out a quick obituary column, never married any of that year’s other heroes, hid her head in a new dishwasher instead
That boy was back, again, weeping to be her keepsake, again, wet-kissing her front door, melting her dry glued-down letterbox with barely repeating breath, having a rectangle look-through the mail carry-cage, snake-eyes looking around her straight hallway for a snake shake-down
She was his ‘Womb Home Girl’, and she was all thoughts on thrift in all her days, built tin after tin after tin of coin.
He needed in, he’d loosen her up, show her what a smoke and needle party could do for heads
He forgot how to have ‘Lucky’, she wasn’t always there, then, she was almost there, at times, sitting still in her condominium watching the newspaper fold-back into earlier creases
If anyone’s son and sons of a bitches were buying wristwatches again, a must-be ‘thing’ was factoring in her facts, her deliberately getting a job to feed herself
Junky Boy with badly cut hairdressing was sweating for the metal spoon, the brown and the flaky brown, and she was inhospitable to his repeated dead waits
That boy will be her soon to be drug addict son of a bitch meeting her maker, midnight after, she’d open a coin tin for a Legacy Wing at the Leprosy Hospital

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