Memories Of A Manic Mother Poem by Not Long Left

she would sit and cry
for hours and I would
not offer a second of
pity for that was like
giving a junkie a
needle.
She would sit and
laugh for hours on
end alone in the dark
and I would remain
under my covers
with my radio firmly
cemented into my ears
I would not humour
her mania for that
would be like encouraging
a bad comedian.
It was only when she
would ask me how
my day was would
I sit beside her stroke
her hair and allow myself
to be her son.