Tuesday is my mother's Monday,
and working nights, she'll take me out
for coffee and a drive. We wrap around
the spruce trees in our blue-silver
Honda and know all the baristas
by name. My mother confesses to them
her many concerns. She
is my most pressing concern.

When we are driving, I do not speak
of poetry. Sometimes I don't speak
at all. We shout
over loud music as we become increasingly intoxicated
on strong mochas, our words mixing
with the likes of love ballads and “Sheena” by
the Ramones. Sunroof down,
we run our errand, entertaining
the natives as well as the intruders. Afternoons,
my mother sleeps.

She is often ill. Some Tuesdays,
she stays in bed all day
and I weep on the deserted streets.
I wouldn't dare show her this poem;
it'll only prove
to make her sadder.

In this summertime oasis, I write out
my anger, but these are the words
I could never put down
on the page.