She's somebody's mother.
Actually, she's my children's mother.

And they've seen her dance,
not some 60's boogaloo,
but shimmys and shakes,
belly rolls that knock out the power.

And they've seen her ride,
not some carnival pony,
but her chestnut mare,
her hair echoed in its tale.

And they've seen her swing,
not some whiffle bat in a backyard match,
but the shaft of a hockey stick cracked on a junkyard dog's back
who had dared to chase her mare.

They haven't seen it all.
They never will.
They missed her perched on the back of her seat,
as Topper launched a drumstick over Strummer's head,
tracking its course and diving three rows,
only to lose it in a scuffle,
not caring I was no help at all.

I haven't seen it all.
I'd already missed so much.
I never touched her blonde hair
that flowed down her teenage back,
hacked off months before our eyes met,
the pictures a torment,
and the foot length lock she hides in her top drawer,
a tease, a reminder not to miss anything,
ever.
Ever.