Mother

Mother

When the hawker trades her spiel

For the party manifesto

She is not my mother

She is no hawker

She becomes opposition activist

A poet

An asset

For the councillor to want.

 

Her eyes are not beaten

She is not tired

She is not herself.

Her gait improves instantly

Her crippled arm forgets itself

Rests on her waist

In defiance

(design advantage!)

 

In the evening is it for me to ask

what she sold?

Am fed!