My Mother is an (Extremely) Angry Black Woman

by Ross Randall Johnson

Complain, complain, complain
When the weather is warm, you say its not warm enough.
You bought a pricey luxury vehicle, but gripe about the cost of maintenance.
Dare I call you an angry black woman, because you'll complain about that too.

Gossip, gossip, gossip
Why spend hours on the phone getting worked up about some other person's problems?
Why does the way Jamal spend his money on Tisha instead of LaShonda infuriate you?
If I point out that you're gossiping, that makes you angry too.

Nag, nag, nag
I procrastinate with task that don't concern you, yet I never hear the end of it until its done.
"You left a cabinet open" or "You betta' not drop crumbs on my carpet,"
I ask you to stop being a nag, and sure enough, it makes you angry.

Angry, angry, angry
Slow drivers. Fast Drivers. Extremely old drivers. Sports talk - angry,
People hanging out on their porches in the middle of the day - angry,
I read you this poem and to no one's surprise, you became angry, extremely angry.

My Mother is an (Extremely) Angry Black Woman by Ross Randall Johnson

© Copyright 2018. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

TimBookTu Logo

Return to the Table of Contents | Return to Main Page