I know the whole thing is a tad inconvenient.
In fact, years too soon —
“One last variation of failure”
Is not something you had penciled in your Day-Timer.

But, why hold the blanket so tight? You can’t keep it.
Someday it will be the blanket’s turn.
And the night shift going past your open door —
Someday each of them, blessed and unblessed alike,
Will have his turn
And I, too, will have my turn.

So what good does it do to always eat your vegetables
And make your own salad dressing,
To run around the track each Tuesday
And cease smoking well before the Surgeon General’s warning?

So what difference does it make to know that East Brady is in Western Pa.,
That saccharin is 500x stronger than sugar,
That safe liberalism, party loyalty and a swell war record
Made Rutherford B. Hayes an acceptable candidate in 1876?

And how does it help to try and try to understand it all —
The limitations of science, the fallacies of philosophy,
The sound the wind makes when it scratches
Its fingernails across our unraked lawn?
(Sorry, dad, no extra points given for phoning
In your answers with a smile in your voice.)

Speaking of help, your doctor is due
To give us the nightly play-by-play —
The blood count, pulse rate and temperature
Of a body beyond repair

Nearing the end, your aspirations remain beyond reach.
Your music never found its audience
And never will. But, it’s just.
Your teacher (he had his turn) told mom who told me —
You were gifted but not gifted enough.
Your playing lacked a certain oomph,
A necessary intensity.

So it’s no surprise you have nothing to impart.
No lessons on how to live.
No tender father-and-son scenes
Like those in movies.
Just a look that says, “Son, there’s something very wrong with you —
That’s why you elicit no praise.”
(And I suppose I deserve no better.)

Oh, did I tell you how mom spent the morning
Picking out your coffin?
(It’s made of polystyrene so it looks expensive
Yet costs less than the average wood or metal unit.)
She will bury you
In the suit you said I could borrow for job interviews.
As planned, your eyes will be scooped out and donated to science.

Since I have only ten minutes left on the parking meter,
I look into your face and try to cry.
I think of my sad things, like watching a squirrel
Dart into the middle of the road,
Hesitate a second too long and get run over.
I try to cry
But my watchdog of despair lets no tears slip by.

By the bye, dad, did I mention my new hobby?
Watching the starlings outside your pale window.
They hop from branch to branch, apparently at random.
(Someday it will be their turn, too.)