Your Dad could see the bad end in

your crush on the j.v. cheerleader,

see her age 50 falling asleep in front

of the TV every afternoon, her thighs

the size and shape of mopbuckets.

He knew this because damn if he

himself hadn’t fallen for that same

girl from the previous generation,

who grew up to become asleep, etc.,

recliner, mopbuckets, in short to

become your Mom.

                                  And of course

the more your father tried to insinuate

the girl’s unlovely family and how

he would not want to be driving to

that part of town the more she grew

on you the more your father could

see her in time-lapse at two-year

stages. And of course he was and

is correct: you’re 50 now, your wife

lives pretty much as described, and

you stand bewildered by all this –

God, she has turned into my mother –

and feeling betrayed somehow by your

Dad who never said anything. God,

now he’s 80, held together only by

bondo, so angry at his own impending

death that he has no anger left

anymore for you for anyone anything

else, except for how pretty his grand-