Poem

There's a lady that comes into my bank branch. She writes poetry. I submit it for your approval.

My Mother Yet Again

How to deal with it?
Facing her yet again,
every morning.
Smiling,
almost always on,
histronics so similar
to those of the original.
Putting herself on display,
make-up thickly applied.
She adds to the effect with
a showy blonde wig.
Did mother call everyone
'dear' and 'darling' as her clone does?
That I don't recall,
but I know mother was a
crowd-pleaser, as ditto,
my morning slice of phoney-baloney!
How can I interact civilly?
I really know I need to manage better
these feelings if it's not too late to do!

But, every day, it's early tuning up
of a stalling engine.
I almost always drag myself in
groggy and low, and I need desperately
for everyone to be real, but, God,
there's so much going on that isn't.
Please don't smother me with
'dear's or 'darling's or 'ha-ha' in my face!

Don't want to be a bitch, but,
at times like these, almost every day,
it's so difficult not to.

Maybe you need to know Slavia to really appreciate this. I like it.