At the end, no one showed but us:
distant daughter, twice-disowned
and Wife #6, cracking gum, practicing
your signature on the back of your
withdrawal slip. Who else did you
would come? From what source
a guest list drawn, a crowd to rally
as you sank, yacht-sails dragged through
water you fouled? Perhaps a priest to anoint
you, atheist, on your way down? Perhaps
Wife #4, bearing a basket
of fruit and the knife
she tried to stab you with? Or would you
prefer to take int 5th?
Which of your siblings,
long deleted from your
mailing list, did you expect to make the trip,
cough up six bucks for gas, plus tolls. And
of us (your two children, known) owned you so much
as an hour of our grown-up time, you who never
hand or gave a dime?
Hard to admit; country-club Communist
short-tipping your caddy, sweet-timing
sugar daddy, buttering your way
in and out of wedding rings (more than
enough for one entire hand). In the end,
you wanted tears and a 6-piece band.
How poorly you planned.