White linoleum stares up through
the splatters of discarded newspapers,
empty cans of Natural Light,
and crumpled piles of dirty clothes at
the stove mama used to fry chicken on.

The old man hunches over a cluttered kitchen table.
Scratching on word puzzles and letting Lucky Strikes
burn down to his fingertips.
Face unshaved. Eyes bloodshot. Hair fading.
He is absently unaware how much he misses mama.

The Braves game leaks through the one good speaker of his radio
And he curses as Avery gives up another run.
Fried cornbread, three days old, jumps out of the pan
as he slams his fist on the table.
He’ll clean up the house tomorrow.

Mail that he was going to get yesterday,
Piles up the mail box like the brown leaves in his yard.
He drains his last Natty as the morning sun leaks through a dirty window.
The phone rings over and over as
he cleans and ponders mama.

In the piles of dirty dishes,
He remembers how clean mama kept this place.
He rubs his stubbled chin and mumbles a half-hearted prayer.
The phone rings as he makes plans for tomorrow