traveling back to who
and when I was loved by
people who know me as me
not the person responding
to your rants and raves
so many of you, yelling,
demanding something be done
about what you need, now
emergencies of ego
born of desperate promises
abandoned in a heap at my door
a plump screaming baby
whose real mother grew
weary of holding, coddling,
and soothing all the unremitting
finger jabs for attention
Yet, determined by a cord
wrapped in a hope filled future
my own babies wait
wanting the mom they
once knew, calm, loving
attentive to needs
their lovely bow of forgiveness
hiding my broken promises
Breakfast with Buse 
Extraordinary. I’m not much of a literary person, but know what I like. This is a tender and personal portrayal of what appears to be a real mom (of course she is). But the world needs more of these honest revelations from women engaged in the struggle for their own personal identities. They are more than moms if being moms weren’t great enough.
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Thank you.
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