Death of the Mom-Jean

You are gone,  
the pant that knew me best,  
every expanded curve,  
every navel-height belted  
inch of me.  
 
I will miss  
wiping cake batter  
& baby formula off of you.  
 
Each soccer practice,  
church play,  
PTA meeting,  
run to the store.  
 
You've been with me,  
through each,  
and have waited  
patiently on the  
bedroom floor,  
while Earl and I  
finished our  
blessed bi-monthly  
relations.  
 
How I wished,  
it was you touching my hips,  
rather than his pale,  
claws.  
 
How thankful I am,  
that the moments  
I lie trapped under his  
fat, stinking body,  
inhaling his coffee-sickened  
breath,  
are foreshortened  
by his Diabetes....  
 
So I leave you,  
you served your Madame well,  
I release you to the  
fields of Goodwill.  
 
And will now don,  
a widows garb,  
of Marts,  
Wal & Super.  
 
Swathed in Lavender  
Flannel, I will  
go on,  
as the Mother  
nobody wanted,  
minder of the World,  
scolder of Naughty  
boys.