Prognosis
When I was a kid,
Steven Maynard called my mom fat
and I punched him
in the stomach.
He wasn’t wrong.
She was fat.
But she was also my mom.
And what son doesn’t
defend his mother?
Besides, so what if she loved to eat
sweets. So did I.
We ate them together.
Donuts, cookies, cakes.
Now all these years after
she’s lost her mobility
she’s lost her memory
and lately, she’s lost her appetite
even for sweets.
The doctor says it could be a month
or it could be six,
which is also a truthful,
not-very-nice thing to say.
But how do I defend her?
* * * * *
Yearbook
It doesn’t seem fair that we only get one
for what are probably some
of the worst
years of our lives.
Where’s my yearbook for the Class
of being 25?
Surely I would have been voted
“Life of the Party” that year.
Or the one where you and I win
“Cutest Couple”?
Of course, some years
I’d rather not commemorate
like when divorce was a theme,
and “Biggest Flirt,”
my ex-wife.
And surely the older we get
the slimmer the volume,
the less autographs,
with new categories such as
“Best Hair Loss”
and “Most Likely to be Deceased.”
But imagine if every June
you still got a perfect bound
colorful annual of all
the best times,
signed by everyone you know
and even some you don’t,
reminding you to
Have a great summer
and Stay cool.