(With a nod to William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130)
On Mother’s Day, she moved from her hotel
To Leavenworth, and Vernon drove the truck.
For him and me, it was a slice of hell,
Hard labor, worsened by a record, stuck.
She talked non-stop, the words we soon ignored,
A worried drone that one could scarce abide.
‘Til Vernon whispered me, “Miséricorde,”
Which I vetoed in lieu of matricide.
She had not packed her clothes as one might hope,
Preferred the Herbert’s valet cart as rack.
What opened with an avalanche of coats
Finalèd with a snap sound in my back.
But at farewell, her desperate gratitude
Made me Love’s slave: she breaks my heart in two.
– Abraxas B. Adams