All these years,
Momma says, driving us
up the coast
toward home,
following the old
beach highway.
All these years,
she says,
I kept us
from government help.
Until now.
The hospital and Lizzie are behind us.
Ormond and welfare wait for us
up the road some.
It’s growing dark,
the sky turning
pink and gold
with just that much blue.
Momma is quiet
smoking
her eyes dripping
like she has leaks.
Then she says,
Your daddy and me
used to drive
this old road on his bike.
You did?
I say.
I never knew.
There’s lots you don’t know,
Momma says.
And she is right about
that.
She is right
about
that.