Therapy
Poor Sammy didn’t know what happened
to the Cheezburger. He wanted to tear the curtains
to shreds tonight traveling in Vegas, eating seaweed,
damn fishy flakes. Between him and Baby,
they had five dollars. Mother had fifty five dollars
in fifty cent pieces, and a stash of Chinese tamales
stuffed in her purse. Ni mo yung, she said,
before she grabbed a pair of scissors and hacked
off a clump of his hair. Traveling with Mother
was like eating bad broccoli and bone meal.
Her nasal cells had ESP. Mother knew when he rolled
in egg shells. She knew it couldn’t be the Eskimo.