Oh, she is bleak, she is not happy.
She has been sitting there so long
her neck grows stiff. (See how Anna’s head
is slightly forward, as if trying to relieve some ache?)
Her boy, so attuned to her, insists she sit instead of
stand. She protests, not admitting her back aches.

She poses for her talented son. His wantonness, philandering,
and rakish ways sets her mouth in a grim line.
Her indefatigable love for him
exhausts her.

As for James, he’s surprised at the fuss:
his mother in habitual dress
against the wall and curtain
made for an interesting study
in grey, black and white.

People act like no one has ever thought
to paint their mother, waiting patiently.
What he imagines every mother does.