Mom in Milwaukee

by Matt Cook

My mother doesn’t understand why we live in Milwaukee. Every time she visits, it’s always the grayest, ugliest day outside.   People who look like deformed potatoes are urinating in public; Disturbed war veterans are combing the lawns of the county park system With those metal detector things.   Motorists at stoplights next to you Are altogether unapologetic About littering Chicken McNugget dipping sauce containers Out passenger-side windows.   You’ll see a car for sale in a vacant lot— A tree growing through its engine. You’ll see the ruins of a dead snowman, or something.   Then Mother leaves town— At once the sunbeams break through the clouds, Passersby look beautiful and sophisticated. Garbage men have top hats and cigarette cases— The ranch houses have simian gargoyles. Independent rock-and-roll bands are tolerably harmonious And the Mexican food is suddenly better than New Mexico.

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From In the Small of My Backyard, Manic D Press, 2002, by MATT COOK.