what mother might have hoped for me

After ruining so many jacket sleeves outside the recital hall foyer
myself tucked between the last stone bench and the Eastern wall
I can hardly care about the cold, wet spot down the breast of my shirt
that clings to my spasming chest.

Fifty years, and what’s to hope for next?
What I might have to offer those withering bones
my mere comfort, a brief smile,
I’m too poor to afford.