Mother of Sorrow,
Mother of stars and night fires, arroyos,
tossed tequila bottles,
the dead drunk.
Mother of the streets, of the violent,
weekend golfers, cut off,
and a windshield smashed with bare fists;
the knife, the absurdity, the day in court.
Mother of amphetamines, the aging
speed freak, who looks to kick
around an oval track in a beat up
stock car. Mother of the subways,
the swaying lost.
Mother of day laborers, children,
early mornings, in the fields.
Mother of Guatemala,
of empty Ohio River steel towns
where no more black soot seeps
into the cracks of houses.
Mother of Cleveland, of every neon bar,
honky tonk. Mother of Hank Williams,
late night pick-ups that end in
anguish or bruises.
Mother of every redneck,
alone and crossed at closing,
every liberal who circles a silo
in protest, crying out
to be loved.