A Poem for Mother

I could not stop for life,
So mother stopped for me,
She picked me up on the way,
From a hospital drawer,
Slightly past the ides of March,
In the spring of nineteen hundred seventy four,
Feared once to be hydro-cephalic,
My cranium was merely extravagant,
Instead of a crib or a new baby bib,
My head received a cabinet,
Here I remained,
Until taken to see
Mrs. Lela M. Payne,
Where I learned to play piano,
Mother took me to lessons,
Every week because I wasn’t an alto,
My melon head couldn’t play an octave,
She loved me all the same,
Who needs eight notes?
When Bartok used six to such acclaim.

–Richard Bryant