Mummy, listen.

Mummy is pulling the chicken meat of its bones,

with artful gluttony,

the oil stains her lips.

Her eyes darts in thoughts

of the day she survived at her workplace,

of the words and gossips

hurdled at her back.

Mummy is not listening.

Mummy is not listening to what we speak,

though we sit right across her,

and our words tried to reach,

but it all fell on her deaf ears.

We have always busied with our days,

and it all comes down to this.

But she chooses not to let go,

so she forgets who she is facing with.

On other days

she tells me not to keep thoughts to myself,

or it will become over-whelming

like I do not already know.

But why does she not try to connect,

on days like this,

because I need help to speak.

Mummy is unhappy everyday,

says she’s fighting a war at her workplace,

always having to be alert,

because its never just about the numbers,

but also the words.

But mummy you are home.

But mummy, you are outside with us.

Why let the petty nuisance plague your life,

till it blurs you from our presence.

Talk to us, and listen.

Exchange words of ourselves,

not others.

Do it with us,

not with your thoughts.


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