My Mother <br />loved old bags <br />she’d carry everything <br />in a plastic bag: <br />Baker’s Delight bags, <br />Safeway bags, <br />“I’ve got you a Myer’s bag.” <br />“Oh good, <br />I need a strong bag.” <br /> <br />There’s a drawer <br />where I keep <br />the bags for Mum. <br />I open it automatically <br />to jam another one in. <br /> <br />It’s overflowing, <br />so many bags for Mum <br />then it dawns why; <br /> <br />Mum hasn’t been <br />picking them up: <br />she had a stroke, <br />she can’t walk. <br /> <br />I’ll never again open the door <br />to her anxious, <br />glad to see me, smile. <br /> <br />I should throw the bags out, <br />but maybe <br />if I keep them, <br />she’ll get better.<br /><br />Pete Dowe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-bags-a-poem-about-mum/
