Mama Molds in Poetry

Mama wants you/ to follow your dream.
My dream is to lead/ a mighty regime.

To be a leader,/ you can’t be so soft-spoken.
I’ll be a doctor/ and fix things that are broken.

That’ll be hard,/ and a shit ton of school.
I think I can do it./ Mama didn’t raise no fool.

Well, I don’t have money/ to send you to college.
I can work a side job/ while I attain knowledge.

You’ll be tired and poor/ and want to come home.
Well, I can live with you here/ until I’m ready to roam.

I think that’d be best./ I’d miss you too much.
I can stay for a while–/ work on my music and such.

The chance that you’d become/ a professional singer…
… is slim to none./ But, I can cross my fingers.

You can’t cross your fingers/ when it comes to a profession.
Well, what should I do?/ Answer me that question!

You can work at my salon./ You know, work with your mama.
I’d love to do that, mama. / But, I can’t stand all the drama.

Oh, it’s not that bad. /And, I can get you a job.
Fine, I’ll give it a try./ Better than sit here and sob.

Try it, she did./ And, for a long time, she stayed.
Thirty-six years/ until her reasons did fade.
See, her mama had died/ and she didn’t know what to do.
The person she was,/ was… she had no clue.

Last updated December 10, 2017