I found it rather ironic that the bus fare for
the guilt-tripped trip home cost me thirteen dollars.
My step-mother, who was probably in fifth grade
when I was born, picked me up in my father's
new shiny black automobilie.
She prattled on as if I had begged her to
catch me up on modern suburbanite living.
Apparently it was impossible to find good help these days.
I wondered if thirteen-year-old girls laid in
bed at night dreaming of falling in love
with a man's financial portfolio, and
marrying a man who loves you because you look like
his ex-wife did 30 years ago.
She told me to call her mom. I told her
it seemed rather unlikely that she was my mother,
given the fact that at ten-years old, most
females had not quite reached the reproductive age.
She didn't have much to say after that.