Give A Holler to the Changing of the Guard
Gold Coast material but’s become where widows pass
their last tarnished days, instead of usual stairs, this less than dutiful
70 year-old smoker takes the wheezing lift to 3B.
When Dad died of lung cancer,
considering removal of the peeling bit of return address sticker
from which surgeon Bernie cut everything except B. G. Sarnat,
I decided to leave it between the crotchety knocker and spy hole.
forward to today’s delving May day, sniffing jacaranda
on the boulevard from her steely wheelchair, Mother mumbled,
“I’m younger than you now. Son, I worry
your hacking cough
might not make it to my wonderful hundredth birthday party.”
After I snipped the big galoot’s B. off the door. Mom romped,
“Gerry, I eat those words -- you are now the man of my house.”