I wasn't born into a designer family. Entered life
as another unwanted mouth to feed. Birthed into strife
on rundown W. 33rd on Cleveland's near west side
where rowdy drunks roar and tawdry pimps hole up.

The product of greaser backseat adolescents
in the mid-fifties, who got it on
without getting diplomas,
and when baby daddy went to sow more oats,
mom stripped at a local biker's club.

Those times were tough
for a single mom who couldn't get
a government handout

She danced for dimes
during those lean times
for two small boys,
and her husband's crimes.
providing for her kids
made her cry oft times,
but we were too much
for her to manage;
sacrificial, she chose
that for her kid's advantage
she must let them go
to a foster home.

& though I was almost four,
I can still remember...
Her convulsing tears
my heart being dismembered
my worst night terrors
that came that November.

Over six decades
came and went,
I met her again 20 years ago
and we've grown as friends
but I seldom ask myself
about way back when
was she right or wrong?
And all I can find
is a mother's love
that waited long.