“I am not enthusiastic,” says my mother, as

She sank into a puddle on the sofa.

She refused tranquility like a dog taking a pill.

 

“The museum is too hot, too crowded,”

This her take on modern art

We try cajoling her, talk of cocktails

 

She would call us children into the house with a

Whistle of four notes, drawn out, shrill, but

Musical;  we came running from all over

 

She would put both little fingers into her mouth

The decibel level was astonishing.  Other children

Were impressed, admiring.  Our mother.

 

She sat in the back on the way to Collingwood

And kept fussing with her hair and her scarf

With her hands, the fingers that drew us all together.