Mom’s going to die someday

Mom’s going to die
someday. While driving to school,
fiddling with cds and a sore throat
the thought suddenly chokes,
like the number of cars in front
of me, long-lines of cold
color. One call and all will
stop-short.

Childhood let’s us
float with Barbies
who don’t get grey hair
or lose mortgages to men in
dense offices. We fly
from markings on walls–
up and higher, until soon
we’re at the high school lot,
and mom’s nervous
in a passenger seat while snotty teen
whines, “I know, I know!”

Thoughts are postponed
and prepared until one day,
while 19 and soiled in traffic,
late to something (that’s really nothing,)
it dawns that there will come
a morning when we won’t be
able to push
button-number-two,
dialing away on the 405
and feel pacified.
There won’t be an answer
or help on how to drive;
where to steer.
I sob and pull to
the side.