Mourning Preperation

Brush your hair hard like mother would
while looking for biscuits with tea
fine bone china and silver the same
whincing while the tears bevel one's eyelid
will she ever stop to drink
maybe and
just maybe you can hold back the tears
but all is lost in five brush strokes
much like the painter
taking on canvass
not knowing where the brush will
lead him
into oblivion in a day of too much certainty
and mother laughs
as the tears flow
the brush drags
and all the while
a stroke is wished for in the most evil of ways
no brush needed there