Poem for My Mom

I die the most in all my old poemsthey are so fucking boringwith their hurt feelingsbut not in a rude pushy shovea biker off his bikethrow a steel coffee mug foamywith caffeine and rage at some jerk caror telling the man bending over to pet him no kind of way:this dog I walk is too good for your wild enthusiasms.In his dog heart that he belongs to me is never fully true.But you bear no treats either man.I want to write a poem where I go bananasbut real and not at the endpeeled into a bad boy horny sadin the short shorts of my erotic dreams.That's the real trap: to imaginewhat's never gunna happenand call it running home.If I was a better monkI should take the form of a monkey.Yes.Jungle gym the hell out of a tourist trap.And there on particularly enlightened daysamong the rubble and heatI steal a fanny packand bribe its return for an appleor in anger grasp this paw into someone'sunsuspecting sweaty titand then and only thenclimbing up the stony wall Irecede into a hairy joke.The one you tell us kids at this our modest kitchen table:“and the monkey then grabbed my boob.”And we laugh like kids.I wish I could hear it every night momeven as the details fall out or change.