I’m the daughter, so I’ll get the mortgage,
native shrubs, leather-look lounge.
You’re the mother, so for you it’s a villa,
rose garden,
thorns and blooms.
Double bed,
Car CD,
European holiday slides,
Shiraz.
Twin beds.
Photographs,
White bowls dress, white
Hat on white hair.
Baby.
Baby talk,
Money talk,
Pep talk.
Old friends,
Faithful cats.
Photographs, angina pills,
Dentures.
I’ll be surrounded.
Inundated. Busy.
Grand Central Station.
Husband, babies, friends, committees
And a clan of demanding in-laws.
You —
Deserted.
Guest bedroom dusted weekly. Matching lamps.
Grandchildren distant,
Children absent.
Even old friends and faithful cats will leave you
In the end.
(First published in aversion)