Mothering

This morning you're discussing vomit,
whether we can sit at home today.
You, me, a bucket, medicine,
and delicate, porcelain cardinals.

We discuss a plan. I have work,
often ponder whether the job
has robbed years from you,
no parent gets it right.

You alight at the idea of plastic oblongs.
I sing a song of the blues.
We dress in separate rooms,
tombs of our fate.

One day we'll stay home, I'll be weaker.
You'll speak of friends and cars and bills,
it'll go straight through me
but I suppose that'll be too late.