The Bugle Plays Sayonara

A faceless mother's kiss,    
vanishes , her embroidery box,      
once filled with yellow jackets    
and bennies it's quantity sufficient to satisfy anyone,  
sits empty,    
   
Splintered arbor leans, over    
 new harvest of cabbages,      
layers of ugly paint sloughing      
off like dead skin,    
told of the umteen times    
 she had attempted to beautify    
this garden space    
   
In the distance a bugle plays    
the tune Sayonara as mother    
surfaces, outside the dalapidated    
white picket      
Her face looks up  to the    
 checkered sky screaming    
at the rays that fade,    
her sun bleached kimono.