I watched the surfers this morning.
A ballet of arrowheads floated over jade glass,
Cormorants as audience dove alongside.
They remind me of the Bongo Board, mom
balanced barefooted in our den, on a seesaw of sorts,
auburn hair flipped at the shoulder,
red luster upstages fluorescents of a Pucci minidress,
her satin slingbacks dyed pink to match, now tossed
atop a pile of Penny Loafers and Buck Oxfords.
A gin martini rests effortlessly in the cup of her left hand,
the olive floats, motionless, synced to the rhythm of smooth glides,
an act to upstage Getz/Gilberto and Bossa Nova sounds
of Ipanema. Dinner guests fill ash trays,
sip Galliano from espresso cups, their ritual digestif
to fondue, plates left to crust on the table til morning.
I never told mom I found the polaroid negatives in the trash,
the developer paste revealed unfamiliar body parts in reverse,
enough form to feel relief that I slept through the night.
This morning, I admired mom in her butterfly
flannel PJs, crumbs on her chest, swollen knuckles
struggling to squeeze a lemon wedge into her Darjeeling tea.