“It’s not easy being a mother. If it were, fathers would do it.” —The Golden Girls(more…)
Bask in nighttime blues
stars dot the sky like flecks of white paint
Mothers moan for lost children –
we want rhythm, but not the blues
the aqua blue of deep seas
the blackened blue of bruised eyes
the blues guitar of the Mississippi Delta
the crystal blue eyes of your lover –
sing the blues, young one
sing ‘em while draped in a blue dress
drowning in muddy waters.
Cindy parked her work truck in the shade by a McDonald’s and took a big bite out of her Quarter Pounder. Her lunch breaks were always interrupted by phone calls — the endless calls from dispatchers. Today was no different.
When her phone rang, she turned down the Brad Paisely song on her radio.
“Hey, sunshine,” said Marcus, the dispatcher. “Feel like catching any more dogs today?”
It wasn’t the call Cindy wanted to get. But at least it wasn’t the call, the one she constantly feared getting.(more…)