Mother?

Inspired by a true story... a poem, after the break.


Stratified,
how junk mail builds,
layer upon layer,
untouched.
Shift the top,
feet untouched,
surprisingly polite.
Inquiries,
get well and,
happy birthday of course.

The dead cat comes next.
First sign,
after the smell,
of something
seriously
wrong.
The next few layers are unreadable,
a block,
cemented,
bound together with piss.
The cat?

Shovel swinging,
attack it.
Your job isn't it?
Officer?
At the bottom comes the body.
It had to be there,
of course,
she couldn't have just left home.
She fell,
and lay,
starved to death,
died of shock.
Not your job,
officer.
Leave her for forensics.

Her lawn was so well kept...

The daughter,
once a week.
She didn't?
No.
Made excuses,
called and called,
even left messages.
Began to walk,
thirty two blocks,
to leave her keys at home.

Suspicious?
Sure.
Follow up?
Not your job,
is it?
Officer.

Leave it to social services.