I thought about calling Mom
when she didn’t call me.
Dad said no.

“I told you she’ll call
when she wants
something,” he said.

I waited for Dad
to go to the bar
then called anyway,
dialing the number
for Milly—
the woman
she was staying with
since she left
a few months ago.

“I don’t know
where the hell
your mother is,” Milly said.
“She moved out on me, too.”

She said Mom took off
right after they
got back from visiting
Harry and Ray in Florida,
that she got all
“huffy-puffy”
about something
but wouldn’t say what,
only that she didn’t
get to do
what she wanted
to do.

“Your Mom’s really
something,” Milly said.
“I hope you don’t
take after her.”

She said she hoped
I didn’t take after
my dad either.

“Shit,” she said.
“You’re screwed
with parents like that.”

She coughed a bit,
then said things like
“oh hell,” and
“you poor girl,”
her voice softening
as she asked
how high school was going,
if I had a boyfriend,
and if I was OK,
living alone with Dad,
but never waiting
for my answer.

“You know
now that I think of it,” she said,
“I might have a number
for your mom.”

I heard her
rattle through drawers
and shuffle papers.

“OK, here you go.”
She recited seven digits
plus the area code,
asking if I got it all.

“I guess she knew
you’d be calling,” she said.
“’Cuz she sure as hell
didn’t leave this for me.”

I hung up and wondered
if I should call Mom,
what it’d be like
to talk to her,
remembering how
she sat beside me
one afternoon to watch
the color Zenith Dad got
with his employee discount
at Highfield Applicance.

“God I’m fed up.”
Mom shouted out
and lit a cigarette,
the sulphur from her match
hanging in the air.

“Men aren’t
the only ones
who can screw around.”
She went on,
saying she should
just up and leave,
that there was no sense
sticking around for better
when everything was worse.

“I just know
there’s more to life
then living with
a dumb Polack.”

I half-listened,
having heard it all before,
how she was
sick of everything,
sick of Dad,
sick of him
working a crappy job
and coming home late
all drunk and handsy,
how she couldn’t stand
living in some
God-forsaken town,
never being able to be
what she wanted
to be.

“I sure as hell
can’t be me
being chained to
your dad.”

Mom pushed herself up
to stand by the window.
She blew smoke at the
worn shingled houses,
and said she doubted
anyone would notice
if she shed all her clothes
and ran out
to wave her arms and howl
in the littered street.

“Yep,” she said.
“I know you sure wouldn’t
the way you’re glued
to that stupid TV.”