"Reminding Me Of Mother"

                           When you look at me that way I want to crawl mercifully back into a depraved fetal position. Upon exhibiting Catholic schoolgirl uniforms in early Autumn. September breezes flicker right up the long-tightening sleeves of  my pressed-elastic-gripped-fluorescent-windbreaker. Afternoon trees sway and diminish in various seasonal folly. Birch and oak, poplars all soaked with morning dew manifestations. Darkened brown eyebrows and: I'd like to invite you over for supper dear. Your feminine frame so subtle and supple. We'll make eyes at each other over doily-like table linings. Fruits and vegetables of primitive pilgrimage assorted in leaf-like baskets of brisk awakenings.  
                           You remind me of mother my dear, when she was your age. The way your adolescent legs unravel beyond juvenile premonition. How your stockings are worn meticulously with narrow garters. I would like to see you smile for the camera in decadent decades of illustrious narration. Black-and-white over-toned photos of you tanning on Eastern coastal shorelines under majestic suns of trivial despair. Then later we'll pass through sordid establishments, catching up on some sea-salt rimmed margaritas. Chasers of O.J. and cran, topped off with drunken intervals of Cuervo Gold, we'll invite the fine Colombian over after-hours, staying awake through moonlit masquerades of frivolous restless timing
                           I like the way you walk. You got that groovy uptown hipster 1978' and I'm 30 thing going on. I like how you are extremely photogenic, like mother was. You even wear your hair like her. Neatly tied into a bun at the back. Crimson evenings envelope residential beach houses. We'll switch to White Russians early, mixing in some Tchaikovsky to set the background mood. Cousin Larry and the Moose-boys will be there dressed in black as always, we'll celebrate nocturnal transformations of pretentious insignificant realizations. When brutal sunlit morning presents itself barbarically we'll curse the myriad money we spent at the midnight casino. "You said you can count cards you shithead!", she'll wail violently through her towering smoker lungs. Which reminds me: you smoke the same brand of cigarettes that mother used to chain-smoke. Then in sweltering anger you'll whirl your left-high-heel at my dull thwarted cranium. I will have to explain to the badminton boys at the golf course where the protruding rupturing shiner came from.
                          You know I'll never leave you. You suffice an old abandoned childhood void left unfulfilled. Mother made me feel the same way before the operation.