Molloy…

Dear Mr. Beckett,

Is your mother home?

May’s left for palm oil.

Yet, I think you’ll find,

she’s been here all along.

Your nost-gills are in-hoarding

amniotic vapo-rub.

I can’t cease marinatin’ pathos

while in this womban’s tub.

This is your mother’s room;

She permeates the air,

with such muchness

You, modern Oedipus,

can’t even tell she’s there?