FIRST PLACE

World Wide Web

As mother kissed the steering wheel,

She bit her lip.  The red

And salty fluid gushed, but calm

Replaced the mortal dread.

The car decelerated, stopped

On shoulder.  Glass with blood

Designed a lengthy spider web.

The other car, a thud

Against a pole.  The acrid scent

Of smoke polluted air.

The bodies bent like question marks,

An answered final prayer.

I thought I saw a shadow dance.

I witnessed mother leave.

I heard the roll of gurney’s wheels.

The rush began with heave.

Hallucinations visit mom.

The rhythmic beeps alert

The staff about a pressure change.

A parent lies inert.

Another one did disappear

From family life by choice.

The doctors look away.  I try

To scream, but have no voice.

The nurses look away as well.

I walk through walls with ease.

I hear a doctor diagnose

But never cure disease.

She said addiction is a foe

Who masquerades as friend.

I see a nurse.  She is my mom;

I think I will pretend.

I bring my doll.  I hide in air.

My mother never smiled.

I am adopting stranger mom. 
She won’t neglect her child.

Her layered hair is dark and frames

Her pretty oval face.

My curly hair is dirty blonde.

The past, I will erase:

A mom who never slaps my face

Is all I dream about.

I watch her squeeze a lemon dry.

The drops collect on trout.

I watch my brother eat like slob.

He slips a piece to dog.

A television soon provides

The only dialogue.

I watch my father walk the dog.

The skinny leash retracts

With press of button.  Squirrels move

And crazy Dash reacts.

He lunges, growls, and swipes at air.

His paws extend like hook

Of boxer cornered deep in ring.

He gives me startled look.

His master tries to silence bark

By tugging collar hard.

I laugh as beast advances, tries

To bite my leotard.

I’m soft as cotton candy rolls.

His teeth are onyx hard.

He tries to lick me, whimpers, runs,

And hides in neighbor’s yard.

Our home is colored butterscotch.

I love to crawl in bed

With mom and dad.  I like the books

On file my mom has read.

She has a magic made machine

That shows a book, but hides

The spine.  The brick and mortar stores

Will close, my dad derides.

He reads archaic paper books.

He likes the musty scent

With yellow page and book which has

A spine that can be bent.                                                                                                

My spineless mother made a mess

Of life.  She loved her highs.

She hated lows and ruined our deaths.

I’m sick of all the lies.

I watch my mother go to work.

I try to tug her sleeve.

This time, I touch her scrub.  She fells

The pull.  I want to leave.

I watch my father go to work.

His focus comes and goes.

He types with steady clack, but pile

Like poison ivy grows.

I watch my brother go to school.

He’d rather be at home.

He talks in class, is bored, and draws

A sketch that features gnome.

I go to cemetery gate.

I jump the iron fence.

I find my mother’s grave and spit.

She sees the consequence.

I watch a fly in spider web

And wonder where’s the light.

My mother had the right of way,

But never way of right!

©2015 Ryan Tilley

About the Author Ryan Tilley

Ryan Tilley was born in New Orleans, grew up in Baton Rouge, and was graduated from LSU.  He lives in central Florida with his wife, son, and dog.  Ryan has been writing poetry about death and rebirth in rhyme and meter for 30 years and composed the sequel to The Raven on February 2, 2006 while being unaware at that time of the significance of February 2, 1847 in Poe family history.   His only published book is A Prophet's Burden: The Raven Returns.