Mother drives. She’s had five cars since dad died last year.
She’s 85 but feels 19. She says she’s ready to do it all again.
The convertible makes her feel young. She wants to date.
Her sweetheart stopped calling years ago;
still she hopes to find another.
She’d like to kiss him on the lips.
The salesman in the bright red shoes promises her one last fling.
This here Prius will save you gas, he promises.
And besides that, it’ll get you into heaven.
That boyfriend will be sure to reappear,
just be sure to let him steer.
There’s not a lot of time.
First the Chrysler, then the Prius.
Now she’s in a Mini Cooper, not tan but brown;
A tiny thing, just right for a clown.
If she lives ’til ninety, she’ll get a Harley.
She cries for help on the streets of Berlin. That night
she goes out drinking, trying to find Mezz Mezzrow.
Next morning, she buys a spectacular Picasso.
She’s determined to sell it at auction.
Her new friend Fritz licks her ear and whispers:
“Hey, baby, let’s get out of here.”
On the Atlantic crossing her body gets pounded.
She struggles to stand as the ocean swells.
She’s looking for a companion to play Chinese checkers.
But she doesn’t want to hear a bunch of shit
against the black President. He reminds her of her father.
She’s back now and the phone rings. Letters are pouring in.
Today, it’s another from Michelle Obama.
She thanks mother for inventing those wonderful drones.
They’re dead set against more boots on the ground and
her husband Barack agrees; mother’s design is not unsound.
She and mother have become fast friends.
They both adore the President;
mother believes Obama can do no wrong.
Tall and handsome is surely a part of it,
if they’d let her, she’d move right in.
This is not about politics;
it’s about feeling out of it.
It’s not easy being stinky.
Her bras smell of perspiration; some might even
say of death. She says she can’t depend on the cleaners.
“There’s an Israeli spy in the White House,” she calls to warn.
The White House agrees and takes her check.
“Send another,” they implore, “and we’ll search the attic.”
Mother’s happy she’s saved the day;
she’s glad the Obamas won’t let him stay.
It’s Mother’s Day at last; Father’s Day has passed.
She won’t have to buy that motorcycle.
The men in black will take the Cadillac;
it’s just parked around the corner.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a mourner?”
But I was too shocked to shed a tear, as I beheld
Mr. and Mrs. President enthroned at the rear.
David Lohrey’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and Lithuania. In the US, his poems can be found at The RavensPerch, New Orleans Review, Nice Cage, and The Drunken Llama. Internationally, his work appears in journals located in Australia, India, Ireland, Malawi, and Hungary. His fiction can be seen at Dodging The Rain, Terror House Magazine, and Literally Stories. David’s collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishing. He lives in Tokyo.