He entered the room.
“It’s your son, Tony,
Mrs Picello,”
The young carer said.

He sniffed up the air,
Sniffed his mother, too.
No smell of piss or
Puke as other old

Folk sometimes did there,
His mother smelt as
Good any dame
He’d known. He kissed his

Mother’s cheek and sat
Down and took her hand.
“Who the hell are you?”
She said, pulling her

Hand away like some
Young girl who’d been touched
On her soft breast for
The first time ever.

“It’s me, Ma, your son,
Tony,” he said soft.
“Tony who?” she asked,
Turning her glassy

Blue eyes to his face.
“Tony Picello.”
The carer smiled, shook
Her head, turned and left

The room, wagging her
Black American
Ass sexily as
She went. Distractions,

Tony mused, nice, cool
Distractions. He turned,
Gazed at his mother
Once again. “Who was

That?” she grimly asked.
“That was your carer,”
Tony gently said.
“She’s not my carer;

She’s a whore; you can
Tell by the cheap scent.”
He gazed closely at
His old mother’s hair.

It was neatly tied
Back, the grey and white,
Mingled. The jet black
Colour gone like her

Once fine, friendly mind.
“How are you doing?”
Tony asked looking
At the blue dress his

Mother wore, the way
It hung just below
Her knees, revealing
Spindly legs, in brown

Stockings. “Are you my
Brother?” his mother
Asked, her voice angry.
“No, Ma, I’m your son.”

She turned her head and
Gazed out the window.
“I ain’t got a son.
Only some brother

Who cheated me out
Of money I was
Due in 52.”
Tony shook his head.

His uncle had died
In March 45.
His mother sat still,
Staring out at a

Semi seen blue sky,
Said no more, but sighed
As if some shadow
Of someone she had
Known, had slowly died.