Our mothers are identical in ways
that no one sane would ever brag about.
They’re narcissistic fixers who don’t praise;
they’re shoppers who would gladly drag us out
to malls or outlets anxious to exchange
the bulk of stuff they brought home recently.
They think they’re functional and we are strange.
They seldom treat a waiter decently.

They don’t know one another, and they’re years
apart in age, from backgrounds quite diverse.
But each is miserly with laughs and tears,
and both are toxic to us like a curse.
I suffer less than you, because I lack
an older sibling polishing the track.