Mothers

Wrong number. I know it as soon as she whines
Hello, the accent more Italian than Greek.
I push it: this is a holiday, and maybe the voice
Warps somewhere between Philly and Abilene:
Mom, is it you? And it is, in a way, a mother
But not mine. I finally phoned, she says,
After all these years, relented—I can’t cut in
While she’s crying—she wants me to know
All is forgotten, the clamor and stroke
I caused at the wedding, the affair
At Aunt Nell’s. I’m a good boy, basically,
Aside from the temper. She’s quiet now,
Worried she has said too much. And she has,
Of course. No matter: I have a mother, too,
Who waits in the city for a call
Like this one. So I tell her, forgive me
For not saying this sooner—there’s static—
But I love you, mom, I care about you
And better go before I wreck it again.