David Cooper

(For Eloise Maxwell Cooper)
Mama—pretty,
Petite and short
Whose delicate hands
And pianist fingers passed
To me.
Sitting on her Rapunzel
Black hair as she gazed
Into the vanity mirror—
What did she see: heartbreaks of the past?
Or promises of the future?
Her pretty face unsmiling
like a proper Calvinist
hid her love of life, music, and poetry.
Stern-faced Afro-Scot
with lemon-colored skin
sitting and staring at her
Reflection :
Did she dream of being a movie star
when the only roles were maids?
Or did she dream of repose
Beside the unstill waters of
A clear country brook?
But gray dishwater casts
no reflection
and mop buckets
have neither rhythm nor rhyme.
Now, through my
hands and fancy
she writes poems she lived
for ninety-three years,
but had no time to write.