Before we left the old country, so-called,
      Mom's tits were on the evening news.
She was bathing in the sea
--the Mediterranean.
Old folks were reading the paper
while kids screamed and ran around.

When we came to New York,
she worked as a cleaning lady,
polishing brass, scrubbing floors,
making enough to keep us
in bad food and cold remedies.

Then, some uncle set her up
in a store window, luring
people in to have their fortunes told.
She's been doing that for years now,
perpetrating petty scams,
messing with old people's pensions.

We eat decent cuts of meat
and frequently buy linoleum.
My mother is a soft-core whore,
aging in the window of a store.
I, myself, am in high school now,
just another kid, pretty much,
long and giddy, at Math not bad.

The other day, this uncle -- same--
(skin coldly moist as worm or such)
leaned across the kitchen table
and ran his hand along my arm.
The floor creaked beneath his chair
--it may have said my name.
The steam came over from his tea.
I think this "uncle" is my dad.



About the author:
Ron Singer works in several genres: poetry, fiction, satire, journalism (about Africa), and drama (including librettos for two operas, recorded and performed). Among the places his work has appeared are Borderlands: The Texas Poetry Review; The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists; diagram (e-zine and print anthology) Ellipsis; Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review; Poets & Writers online; The Wall Street Journal; Windsor Review; and numerous literary e-zines. He wrote the Introduction to Thackeray's Vanity Fair (Bantam Books). In November 2006, his chapbook, A Voice for My Grandmother, was published (Ten Penny Players, Inc/bardpress chapbooks), and it has thus far been reviewed five times. Singer lives in New York City, where he has taught at Friends Seminary, a K-12 Quaker school, for thirty years. His wife teaches, too, and she is a visual artist; their daughter is a food writer.

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