I call her up because he lives with me
And so I see myself when I was young
And how like him responsibility
Was late in coming to my mother's son.
I call her up to hope that she might stand
Just somewhat firmer than she seems to do
Upon his negligence. He'd understand
If she might take a stand and make it two.
The ringing trills on still. The monitors
In rooms of babies synchronized by chance
Ring on and in them he was mine and hers
But never ours, imprisoned by his glass.
Though my son's mother cares so carelessly
Am I my mother's son more carefully?
Nik Habermel, February 1997