Mom, Where’s my thing a ma jig?

Confuse and curious about the constant abuse,

of the obsession to the question that give mothers indigestion,

Its asked each second, each minute, each hour,

though the Hot summer days, to the cool winter nights

Its always,

Where’s this?

Where’s that?

Its not here?

its not their?

Mom, Where's my thing a ma jig?

Did you look with your eyes?

Did you move stuff around?

No huff no gruff it must be found.

Mom, Where's my thing a ma jig?

Crying and Screaming, nothing is found

Tummy is turning,

why is the volume so loud?

Mom! Where's my thing a ma jig?!

Check the mantel shelf Or the Glass table,

Is it under the rug, or Next to the plug?

Move The coffee mug and kill the bug.

Have you checked the prayer rug?

Its always,

Where’s this?

Where’s that?

Its not here?

its not their?

Mom, Where's my thing a ma jig?

Looking ones self would be a lot faster,

one glance, one second, it will be found,

No screaming or yelling or tear stained eyes,

Mom is here, the thing a ma jig is found

--Christina H., Adult