Her mother is watching her walk away --
her baby she still calls her,
her boyish daughter with the torn jeans,
shuffling up a hill with her friends.
They are probably talking about boys tonight,
like she heard her on the phone to her bff
about how Jill, her friend, said:
Tommy Schroeder's lips felt dead when they kissed.
Her mom, watching them till they disappeared,
the crease of her daughter's hip --
almost that of a woman.
She never told her she looked into her purse,
saw the pills,
the evidence that she was active.
It was the last she saw of her that day.
Never looking up at her daughter's face,
but watching her knees
push up through the cut hairs of the denim,
as she walked farther away from home,
Robert Walicki has had his poetry published in The Shot Glass Journal and Emerge Literary Journal, among others, and is active with the Pittsburgh Writer's Studio and the Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange.