I wrote this poem several years ago after mother died. Every mother's day I think of her, and this is the way I imagine her now.

Mother’s Day in Heaven.

It’s Mother’s Day in Heaven.

Mom’s perfect day begins

shopping at Macy’s

biggest sale of the year.

Returning burdened with bags,

jewelry and casual wear.

She’ll model the clothes

boasting of bargains and discounts,

Then, at the nearest freshwater lake,

minnows and pole in hand, she’ll catch

a stringer of gigantic bass and perch.

After her guardian angel cleans them,

she’ll dine on fried fish,

potato salad, coleslaw,

perhaps two pieces of cherry pie

topped with dad’s homemade ice cream.

The evening will be bingo, bingo, bingo,

winning a pot here, splitting a pot later,

until the final game—when mother

wins the blackout in only forty numbers.