A mother is always watching her waste
coupon clipping, patching, repatching,
darning and knitting, stiching a quilt
of potential savings of bread crusts
burnt toast, dry brush edge of roast,
sucking bone left with too many
shreds of meat still clinging to it…
The slop bucket is weighed against her.
hands on hips, on the opposite pan
she wants to come up light, lighter,
right up to the beam, wanting the
Scottish virtue end of her teeter totter
to bang down, for her to be thrown clear
of her scales. It’s the only way off.