On the Death of my Mother

On the Death of my Mother

I woke up thinking about Sparks and how she still has

someone to remember her long calico fur.  

How death had poor directions and left that scruffy dog

living on the other side of the street sleep

until noon while she found a corner of the house

on which to lay her cares for good.  I thought about the guilt

I felt for not being the perfect son with the large

bank account, the mansion, and the sports cars.

I shed a few tears when I recalled how you’d caress my face. 

It reminded me of Paris and how much I thought about you

while shopping for gifts at the wineries.   It was me

death should have looked for— childless, flashy,

with the sexual appetite, the urban legend,

 the one who should be spooking children

when they go to sleep for weeks after Halloween.