My Mother
loved old bags
she’d carry everything
in a plastic bag:
Baker’s Delight bags,
Safeway bags,
“I’ve got you a Myer’s bag.”
“Oh good,
I need a strong bag.”
There’s a drawer
where I keep
the bags for Mum.
I open it automatically
to jam another one in.
It’s overflowing,
so many bags for Mum
then it dawns why;
Mum hasn’t been
picking them up:
she had a stroke,
she can’t walk.
I’ll never again open the door
to her anxious,
glad to see me, smile.
I should throw the bags out,
but maybe
if I keep them,
she’ll get better.
Pete Dowe
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-bags-a-poem-about-mum/
