mother did it need to be so high

the tone of her voice attempts a tremble

smoothing to a familiar

condescension

betraying

the worry of her words

she has my number now
and won't stop calling

and then we'll take it higher

the breeze was cool, windows down

I sat in the back seat of my sister’s two-door

that would be mine one day

after she left, after she ran

Eddie Grant’s Electric Avenue jacked up high

street lights and the glare from late night store fronts blinding

Sister smiling behind the wheel

little fifteen and
I thought the world was mine

all about her

I was waiting for the trees to fall

to be cut, to be chipped

four days out

a sick day at home

a message; a call

I really thought my mother was dead by now

but it was her calling

the wrong person
at the wrong time
attempting the wrong decisions
requesting the wrong sentiment

sister gone, but still
it's all about mom, all about Her