Waiting For The Folks Poem by Val Morehouse

Waiting For The Folks



Who am I? Why, you’re Mama.
No, I am not. I am your daughter.
Stop foolin’ me!

If you’re not Mama, then who are you?
I am your daughter, see?
No. You’re Erma.

I know you.
Your hair is red.
You’re Erma.

I am not Erma.
Then you lied to me!
You are Mother.

Mother’s hair is red.
Your hair is red.
You are Mama.

What are you tryin’ to pull?
My hair is red. I am…
Not. Your. Mama.

I am not your sister.
They have been dead
These past forty years.

I am, your daughter.
Look in this mirror.
Who’s that?

I don’t know. But she looks hungry.
Let me give her a cookie.
Look. That’s you.

Stop foolin’ me.
That’s some poor old lady.
Well, how old are you?

Why, I’m twelve.
You’re no such thing!
You’re eighty-four.

Am not.
You know liars ain’t nice. Aren’t nice.
I know you’re Erma.

And Mama and Daddy are gonna be fightin’ mad
when they see this place.
When are we going home, Erma?

I’m not ready. I got to get dressed.
We are home.
Daddy will tan my hide.

You are my Mother.
I am your daughter.
We are home.

Well this may be your home,
But it’s not mine.
Erma, I want to go home.

So do I. So do I.
Now eat your dinner.
It’s getting cold.

Erma, when are
Mother and Daddy coming?
Soon. Very soon.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Sonny Rainshine 30 September 2007

Well said. The dialogue format works perfectly and I like that you did not use instrusive and unncessary quotation marks. My own mother's memory held out pretty much until the last 3 or 4 years at the nursing home. She eventually did get to where she couldn't remember the places we'd lived as a family and for some reason that was the deeply sad to me. I still wonder if it wasn't all those drugs they pump them up with in there to keep them quiet that affected her memory. She was sharp as a tack before.

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Ivan Donn Carswell 03 June 2007

Whew, it is sad but beautiful too. The title is poignant and so apt! Rgds, Ivan

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