My mother sits on the bottom step
of her ranch-style home
where she has lived for the past thirty years.

She is asking me what exactly does the word “prick”
mean.

She wears a pair of white Tretorns
turned grey from wear in a garden that,
although tended with hours of care,
looks no better than if left alone.

I want to tell her to look it up.
The directive given me when I was a child
and stumbling across words
I did not understand.

But those words were often adjectives
that if ignored did not disturb the story.
I did not realize that their purpose was to
deepen, enrich, provide nuance
so that I might gain a better understanding
of what was really going on.

My mother, though, is asking about a noun.
One that she called my father two days ago.
He has not spoken to her since.