a ballad

She still remembers
how beautiful he was
when he walked in that mornin’
ordered coffee, lit a cigarette
it was the Cherokee Indian in him -
the high cheekbones,
perfect olive skin,
coal eyes.

She was a single mama
with a handicapped toddler
and a desperate story.
Tryin' to pay the rent
by gettin' orders right
and prayin' for a tip
from old bastards bitter
about love, life and money.

Rose.
Her mama had named her
after his favorite flower.
His Mama had been brutal.
After sleepin' in cars at 14,
bein’ beaten by whatever
man Mama loved that week
and givin' up on ever findin’ softness from a woman -
Rose’s devotion to her less than perfect child
moved things in him that he didn’t know were there.

And god almighty, she could cook collard greens and cornbread
like none he had ever known.

He loved her baby. Paid all the bills. Worked hard.
Made the baby his own. She never knew no other Daddy.
Rose was grateful.
Then the love settled down,
and his memories riled up.
Alcohol. Weed. Nights away.
He blamed all the ‘Jezebels’
on the Devil, instead of just sayin’
he was a son of a bitch.
Rose looked the other way.
Grew thorny. Lost her sweet scent. Withered.

What’s a Mama to do?
She’s old now.
Collard greens and cornbread cookin’
won’t pay the rent, take care of her handicapped woman
or buy a week’s worth of cigarettes.

Love – always a compromise.