I can’t find my mother in work,
but I can locate her
in the deepest of hurts.
I can’t find my mother when I drive,
as people cut me up, in the
conflict they contrive.
I can’t find my mother when I cry
for what I’ve lost
and my lungs are turned dry.
I can’t find my mother in love
that’s pretend; a glamour
that’s just a rubber glove.
I can’t find my mother when
betrayal means bereft.
There’s nothing left then.