Head bent, knees kinked, old shoulders roundly bowed,
Mother kneels hard upon the wooden plank.
Words cascading from two mouths male and proud,
Make Mother ring her hands in woven coils,
Hearing the cant spill from twinned springs of gall.
The one a pope, the other president,
Alternate, articulate, monotone.
White smoke befuddles, as is its intent.
Is that Benedict or Francis - the same?
Cheery Chavez - a new man at the game?
Her knees crackling, aching and seeming stuck,
Distracted, she – was that my phone ringing? -
Begins to reach, perhaps a ruff to pluck,
But no glance she earns, no contact, no link,
Which sets her weary heart and mind to think.
Daughter should have phoned her sometime today,
At least to let her know that all was well,
That she had trudged the trip and found her way,
A bucket filled with silver from the pipe
Then straight home fast-paced as the time grew ripe.
Not a ringing phone, but a rifle shot.
The daughter falls, the silver spills awry.
The mother hears what is and what is not,
As precious silver rivulets the clay.
Daughter will not call this or any day.
Male voices drone commands with thorough might.
Mother listens and hears a low gurgle.
The fluid flows - she senses only fright -
Blood, water – gold, silver - ebb towards dearth.
White gun smoke billows clear above black earth.
