Cheapskate

In my house we had a drawer of little soaps

and shampoos lined on the bathtub rim.

My mother never met a hotel she didn't ransack.

She stopped at towels now,

Scared of retribution,

Hotels aren't like they used to be,

They check now,

Run her credit card.

See what was gone.

No, no more robes for mom.

But little trinkets,

Scraps for a quick wash

Those were gobbled up into suitcases

Lying on their bellies like stuffed ticks as she pushed mints into every corner.

Our home was individually wrapped,

Ranch and ketchup and soy sauce were

always sourced from tablespoon packets.

We ate with plastic forks,

Sometimes I'd bite them clean in half.

Yes, she filled up that home

The freebees became toothpicks and boxes,

Trash to all others, trash that piled

That house darked

Freebees covered the windows

The lights

Everything.

When it went dark I left.

I walked to the hotel down the road.

I stared at the shampoo on the wiped-clean counter

My mother always rinsed the bottles out with water

To get every last drop when they finally emptied.

I threw it away,

I threw them all away,

the shampoo, the conditioner, the body wash, the soap,

the shower cap, the toothbrush, the toothpaste,

the mints and chocolates, the plastic cups, even the bag for the ice,

all into the trash.

I stared at the boxes and plastics in the can.

I understood her a little.

Seems wasteful.

I pulled a plastic-covered mint from the trash.

It tasted like home.