she was busy

I don't remember my mother
worrying
about being happy.
about finding out who she really
was deep inside.

I don't think she ever asked herself,
who am I, what's my purpose in life?

she just wanted to pay
the electric bill and feed her
seven kids.
put clothes on their back,
shoes on their feet.

there was always another heavy
wet load of clothes that she had
to hang on the line out back.

she never concerned herself much
with fashion,
she was too busy worrying about where
the next loaf of bread
and gallon of milk was
coming from.

I never saw her reading a self
help book,
or going to therapy,
or meditating, or agonizing
about her looks,
staring into the mirror,
upset
if she gained two pounds,
or there was a strand of
grey in her hair.

she was too busy for all the hippy
bullshit that was going on too.

sleep was her only break in life,
until the phone rang,
or a baby started crying.
or someone needed to find their
gloves, or shoes, or keys.