Who am I? Why, you’re Mama.
No, I am not. I am your daughter.
Stop foolin’ me!
If you’re not Mama, then who are you?
I am your daughter, see?
No. You’re Erma.
I know you.
Your hair is red.
You’re Erma.
I am not Erma.
Then you lied to me!
You are Mother.
Mother’s hair is red.
Your hair is red.
You are Mama.
What are you tryin’ to pull?
My hair is red. I am…
Not. Your. Mama.
I am not your sister.
They have been dead
These past forty years.
I am, your daughter.
Look in this mirror.
Who’s that?
I don’t know. But she looks hungry.
Let me give her a cookie.
Look. That’s you.
Stop foolin’ me.
That’s some poor old lady.
Well, how old are you?
Why, I’m twelve.
You’re no such thing!
You’re eighty-four.
Am not.
You know liars ain’t nice. Aren’t nice.
I know you’re Erma.
And Mama and Daddy are gonna be fightin’ mad
when they see this place.
When are we going home, Erma?
I’m not ready. I got to get dressed.
We are home.
Daddy will tan my hide.
You are my Mother.
I am your daughter.
We are home.
Well this may be your home,
But it’s not mine.
Erma, I want to go home.
So do I. So do I.
Now eat your dinner.
It’s getting cold.
Erma, when are
Mother and Daddy coming?
Soon. Very soon.
Val Morehouse
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiting-for-the-folks/
