I squint at the screen to study the skin on your face.
It is crinkling under the flash – or perhaps it is a permanent condition.
We are beginning to look like our mothers.
“Where is that incorrigible witch from our university days?
Could you please still hold a grudge, scream out against sexism and brutality,
And pour a bottle of vodka over our male friend’s head?
In return, I could flail wildly along our hometown wharf,
Swing a hip-flask in the air, and jeer repeatedly
At our poor friend’s emotional deficiencies.”
You smile numbly back at me. It seems you have forgotten.
Conscious of my rambling sentimentality,
I hit DELETE.
“What fine-looking children you have.”
- Adults Racing the Modern Child
- Early This Morning