In the kitchen of joy, Mammaw was the conductor of those spices.
A dash of patience, spoonful of understanding, the sound of praise.
The concerto of love with fresh gravy and biscuits,
mixed together on that cast iron wood burning stove.
In the kitchen of confusion, you were the conductor of the fast train
to fast food,KFC by the bucket, along with microwaved guilt.
You couldn’t even cook that in a conventional oven.
now I’m addicted to all of it-the food,
the alcohol in the Dixie Cup with a shame mixer.
You think you’ve done nothing wrong!
I guess it’s hard to see your blame
circumstances beyond your controlling nature-
Hey, Ma… thanks for the therapy!