My Turn

Uncle Sam

You’re missing this year.

No call at Thanksgiving,

no card with your distinctive signature.

No one to take my face in his hands,

say my name.

We’ve lost something invaluable.

I curse benignly as I cut

yet another doll arm. How many doll arms

will l cut in my lifetime for these little grils

and yobs whose wants

I find difficult to pace?

You’re smiling from across the room,

an icon on my altar. I see you

everyday as I eat breakfast,

dinner with my children

all with differing expectations

of my time and talents.

It’s your fault, you know,

this drive to love them with my time.

This endless cutting, pounding, painting--

it will never be done. I’m trying so hard

to keep pace with the gifts you gave:

your mindfulness;

your remembering of us, always.

Your holding us fiercely and forever,

even when we were far away.

It’s my turn now.