This is the dark hour for Madame La Pompadour,
she lost her mother last week so she can't grace
us with her presence; in mourning she's awaiting
the death certificate because without it her parent
though buried or cremated, can't officially be gone
and poor Mme La Pompadour can't drive to work
without this important proof of orphanhood
Though we collected for a commiserating platter,
edible snacks as flowers are passé Sister Long-
suffering said, shuddering - while our Sister Self-
Congratulating's bustling around spreading news
about moving Pension Government Departments
and uncles inheriting but dying sans entitlements,
and who's to be punished, she hollowly asks
And Sister Longsuffering is assisting some who're
constructing robots while Mother Abbess runs up &
down, her kettle boiling in the kitchen, she's afraid
of plugs exploding in our work station while I keep
singing "I have become a can-do-mom, bought a
heater for my son" - Mother Abbess is looking for
legal Afrikaans to inflict upon me, though my son
Studies in English with an international reach, I'm
to hold the burning torch of my mother tongue that
I can't speak without making all sorts of possible &
impossible grammatical errors; why should I suffer
thus - can't you see I'm beyond redemption when -
I'm just me?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You are genius, Margaret! Your world takes me away and puts me someplace new....