"But it was such a long time before the singing part came."

To those of you who have said something to me about it, I apologize for the lack of posts. I didn't realize it had been so long since my last one... I'm starting to feel a little bit like this guy ;) Really, it was all just a big ploy to see how many people actually read this thing and want to see more of it (much more fun than just checking the names of the people who comment).

Anyway. I guess I've been kind of indifferent about things lately, and that's why I haven't written anything. Not bad indifferent... just kind of lazy and laid back indifferent. Homework takes up a lot more of my time this year than it has any other year, and when it's not homework, I'm either at The Republican or doing a news release for PR or something. Not a lot of Becky time this year. Lately I don't seem to want to think about anything unless I have to.

Even now, I'm writing this without actually having anything to say. I'm only writing so I'll have a current post. So... the joke's on you if you thought you were going to read something nice or smart or funny today. Instead, I think I'll post the poem after which this blog is named, which is something I've been meaning to do since day one of my blogdom. Sorry... maybe next time I'll have something worthwhile to say. But this is a fantastic poem... the only one that isn't a Billy Collins and still resides in my list of favorites. I think you'll enjoy it.

I Write My Mother a Poem
-- Fleda Brown

Sometimes I feel her easing further into her grave,
resigned, as always, and I have to come to her rescue.
Like now, when I have so much else to do. Not that

she'd want a poem. She would have been proud, of course,
of all its mystery, involving her, but scared a little.
Her eyes would have filled with tears. It always comes

to that, I don't know why I bother. One gesture
and she's gone down a well of raw feeling, and I'm left
along again. I avert my eyes, to keep from scaring her.

On her dresser is one of those old glass bottles
of Jergen's Lotion with the black label, a little round
bottle of Mum deodorant, a white plastic tray

with Avon necklaces and earrings, pennies, paper clips,
and a large black coat button. I appear to be very
interested in these objects, even interested in the sun

through the blinds. It falls across her face, and not,
as she changes the bed. She would rather have clean sheets
than my poem, but as long as I don't bother her, she's glad

to know I care. She's talked my father into taking
a drive later, stopping for an A & W root beer.
She is dreaming of foam on the glass, the tray propped

on the car window. And trees, farmhouses, the expanse
of the world as seen from inside the car. It is no
use to try to get her out to watch airplanes

take off, or walk a trail, or hear this poem
and offer anything more than "Isn't that sweet!"
Right now bombs are exploding in Kosovo, students

shot in Colorado, and my mother is wearing a root beeer
mutache. Her eyes are unfocused, everything's root beer.
I write root beer, root beer, to make her happy.