Ingratitude

I see you, mom, as you leave
a trace of yourself
on everything you touch:
the shallow glasses my sister
keeps filling up with Coke,
the doorknob that sends you
into a world of supermarkets,
pharmacies and banks,
the bright screen that passes
for a friend from Monday morning
to Sunday evening.
You leave a trace of yourself
on everything, on everyone,
yet, who gives back to you?
What's the reward for the years
that fall behind you
as you work your sad magic?
People and things
remain cold to your touch,
only hungry for the strength
they steal from you,
and I fear the crow
that waits by the window
will not say "thank you", either.