Midwestern Gothic

Mr. Brokaw

My mom is sick.
Her fate suffocates her
like the snow does the hills
outside our windows.

The snow never goes away
It just grows and grows,
and it's taller than my sister now.

Our neighbor visted yesterday,
Mr. Brokaw,
the one who lives just over
the furthest hill to the right.
He brings mom soup
every other day.

"To fatten you up!" He jokes.
Mom laughs every time.
I do not.

Today mom died.
And
Mr. Brokaw came by
today.

"How terrible!" He cried.
Mom was quiet this time.
I was too.

He said that he would
take her to the hospital,
just in case.

And the more I think about it,
the more I notice
that the snow just started to melt,
and the more I notice
that the more soup that mom drank,
the worse she seemed to get.

And now I notice,
as I watch Mr. Brokaw
drive away in his salt truck,
that the town was to the left,
and he was driving to the right.