One year the band was at the Gasparilla Festival,
staying in a motel, and there was a commotion in
the parking lot, and Bobby Moore’s mother came out
in a pink nightgown and peignoir and silk mules.
She was a chaperone. Most of our mothers looked like
Marjorie Main in the Ma and Pa Kettle movies.
I can see her being dragged off to the mental hospital
in
a ratty chenille bathrobe. Cursing like a sailor.
No, lethargic. Depressed. Beat-down by life.
Wearing the same shabby dress.
The weariness, the weariness.
In
That would be