Tony to His Mother
Sad news--new charges on the way
and they're false and near
and you lie there, under lid
these five years.
I won't obey
or listen to rumors.
Mother, if you can see me,
imagine a well-carpeted iceberg,
thick enough for an eight day week.
And I'm alone on it
in a very comfortable chair--
a Morris design.
And we're drifting out to sea,
the berg, its luxuries and me.
Mother, imagine it sailing way out
and me getting smaller and smaller,
a familiar shape fading to a blur;
but you'll know--
always, your quiet, stern knowing--
that I'm small, diminishing
only from where you're sitting,
and you'll know too, I'm relatively safe.