Every time the phone rings
I say to myself, ‘that will be his mother’
and I rehearse what I’m going to say to her:
‘Listen here, you with the funny Spanish name
who isn’t really Spanish
married to the Jewish man
who isn’t really Jewish— just a little.
You think you can phone me up
and in one Bob’s-your-uncle phone call
find out what makes your son tick?
Listen, Mrs. Chiquita-banana-mother—
that little hijo of yours is some
who’s had me on the run for years.
But I was hoping you’d ring.
There’s stuff I want to talk about too,
like his sweet tooth and his sweet tongue,
his cocky way and his wayward cock,
his come-hither look and his slither come,
his fingers, those ten Tinkerbells
of wonderland, lighting all my lights.
What did you think your were doing—
you and that counterfeit husband of yours,
minting a new brand, irresistible man?
Do you think I ever thought of resisting?
Never! It was your darling boy
who buggered off into the sunset— schmunset .
You want to know what makes your son tick?
I’ll tell you Cha Cha Mama! Hot Spanish spices,
Chilli pepper slices— tango, salsa, samba
and bloody Leonard Cohen, slow enough to die from.’