Twenty years elapsed since Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 5th, 2004

Often these days
the following genuine sentiment
Matthew Scott Harris
doth wish to share one son,

cuz twenty years after mother succumbed

courtesy of terminal illness
that ravaged her body.

I still reckon how yours truly

shrugged off proffering

tender loving care

within whose womb,

this sole prodigal son wannabe born,

thus shouldered with self scorn
and now two decades later,
the grief and regret not so heavily worn,

nevertheless I consider myself
less familiar to thy mama
than her hats (no surprise,
she got known
as the hat – trick - lady) on a rack
(built by papa)
that donned yorn head
and trumpeted the presence
of a free spirit.

He (the writer of these words) clearly recounts

as if her death occurred yesterday...,

(when all mine troubles
moost definitely not far away)

last remaining grains sands of time.

Imagine an hourglass

where fine granules

trickle from one to another
(upper to lower) bulbed chamber

just prior when coroner decrees death,

yet an opportunity prevailed

wherein said self (me) chose

NOT to stand vigil at deathbed

of she begat

an older and younger daughter

(mine sibling sisters).

Last breath(s) expelled while mama

tethered to machines,

one or more helped diminish
agonizing, depressing, and writhing

pain and discomfort

racked once fitness

and health conscious
industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,

which malignant terminal illness

(no joke) riddled a former robust

Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor

(think approximately
threescore and ten years past),

whose flirtatious demeanor

instantaneously caught fancy of handsome
twenty something papa at his prime.

Before rigor mortis quickly

stole precious lifeblood, and

final minutes ticked away until

countdown to... realm of absent consciousness

scant moments before subtle transition

slipped our beloved mother into deadzone...,

neither final adieu, caress, grief...,

nor poem written...

never communicated to deceased,

not an iota of sorrowful lament

bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished...

over lifeless body (mommy dearest)

relegated limp suddenly cold stone body,

where morgue aged (mortgaged) corpse

interestingly enough principally
kept in cold storage

(despite aversion to frigid air
exhibited by mama)
preparatory to cremation process.

Rather... suppressed resentment

exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane
(partial listed then abode -

Matthew Scott Harris,

plus his family resided)

by mister recalcitrant,

felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection

regarding once young bride,

(who smothered cingular heir insync

with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris),

cuz he (yours truly overstayed

livingsocial under same roof as parents,

which happenstance (in tandem
with the Leiper's preference
for their demesne plus
one hundred acre estate called Glen Elm
before being purchased by –
I believe a local
within Southeastern Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania realtor
named Donald Neilson, but do not quote me)
situated at 324 Level Road.

Both thee aforementioned

supposed biological guardians

railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally)

yours truly, upon mine eighteenth birthday,

when great expectations greatly exacerbating
emotionally hard times,

which ill suited poet de jure

experienced, brickbats rained

down upon these

(considerably mooch younger) lovely bones

whose anger (mine) smoldered

linkedin to constant epithets of expletives

out the mouths of those who begat me,

subsequently their livid with rage

tsunami festered within every

holy Mole (he) molecule

within mine atomized corporeal being

manifesting itself as deprivation

to embrace dear mama

attended at hospital with
both non twisted sisters;
one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey
and the younger one staked out

modest home within Bend, Oregon,

meanwhile thee grim reaper
did patiently scythe before soon

nonchalantly heading back
to his old curiosity shop,

a rather bleak house, I now conclude.