“You do too much,” my mother says of late,
who used to carp at me for laziness.
I haven’t shirked real work. I’m 68,
and though I harbor barks of craziness,
I’ve never dropped an oar. I pull my weight,
and just because I argued never meant
she had a point, for sloth was not my trait –
my course reveals good energy well-spent.

At 24 my mother lost her mom,
and moved to suburbs and a social life.
She sang her mother’s praises like a psalm
on selflessness, while she rocked modern wife.
She knows I’m for my grandkids, thought and touch,
and now her slogan is, “You do too much.”