Women and Boxes.

Men walk on lone roads scattered cans along the freeway.
Sunlight falls on broken slabs of stone, idiot makers breathe down
My back.
I walk around to the back door and open it to let sunlight stream in.
Certain words develop within boxes and boxes strewn out on
The highway. A quiet voice resonates in the room.
She likes her freedom, to walk about wishing for silent thought,
Trying to piece together echoes of the past.
Her boyfriend, Xavier, plucks melodies on an old tuba;
The highway is void of anything we can see and experience.
I swallow a cup of water. My mother walks into the room, wearing
A sunny yellow dress. She asks for a cup of sugar; I give her the whole
Bag.
My mother, she has MS, and is tired all the time; my mother,
She knows things I do not remember.
I forgave her a long time ago for leaving me in the shopping mall to
Get a paperback from the library, one of those ten cent romances
At a ma and pa store.
She likes her freedom; men walk on lone roads.
The roads are paved. She paves a way to freedom.
The sin is freedom.