dear Mother,

without sudafed given to
unclog my nose,
and a small-car sized fortune on
novels and clothes;
without polka-dot bandaids
for scrapes on my knees
i'd be helpless.
(and rather more inclined to sneeze.)
from the moment i ripped myself
from your poor womb
you've been right on my tail
with your optical zoom.
from school and church services
to play practice and prom,
you've never been Rhonda,
but "Alyssa Duck's mom."
you'll mouth me the words from the
crowd when i sing.
(maybe that will show people
your own identity...)
the future is waiting,
not unlike the past.
we'll wear Pink Flamingos
and adopt 19 year old cats.
and when i get married, you'll
babysit my kids
and buy tupperware for us
with color-coded lids.
we'll always keep with us that
good old Duck Humor
(it runs in our blood like disease.
like a tumor.)
and no storm or crowbar will
tear us apart,
unless we're run over by
Beth Watkins' car.
we'll live for our God, but we'll live
our lives our way,
gawking at wrecks
and snakes in the Scott's driveway.
some days you'll be tired, and
some days i'll be grumpy;
but i'm still your baby,
and you'll always be Mummy. : )