Too much butter

  Nine .am jangle of the dayspread out with toast and coffee:‘’Too much butter!’’, my mother always saidI pile some more upon my breadit doesn’t matter now she’s deadit never did, those sharp curved barbsshe punctured in my flesh that stingand swell some forty years of laughter later. ‘’Too sensitive’’ they told me:as they beat me to submissionit lit rebellious firelight in my headI’m still a rebel, but now it’s only ‘’me’’I rail against. Ten am the coffee’s dried outin my cup, the poetry and picturespiled up on a pyre of memoriessome good some bad but mostare best forgot: they tell me Alzheimer’swill take care of that. The children tut and fighttheir independent motherseems a blight upon the landscapeof their lives! Oh no not I.  I’ll swarm my toast with butteron some foreign beach. Mojitoin my right hand toy boy over therejust in my reach as time goes tiding by:one heart one soul one solid mindand then a star upon a moonlit nightgone supernova exploding to extinction.