nopowrimo number 10: found poem

she had said 

I'm tired of begging

God to overthrow my son, because all this

is like 

having the lights on all the time, sir, and 

she had said it with the same 

naturalness with which on one 

national holiday

she had made her way

through the guard of honor

with a basket of empty bottles and reached

the presidential limousine

that was leading the parade of celebration

in an uproar of ovations and martial music and storms of flowers

and she shoved 

the basket through the window and shouted

to her son that since you'll be passing right by 

take advantage and 

return these bottles to the store on the corner 

poor mother

from The Autumn of the Patriarch by Gabriel Garcia Marquez