When I was a baby,
My Mommy loved me.
And she always would.

When I was a toddler,
My Daddy did too.
And he always would.

And,
there were these:

When I was a teen
I became their lying “go-between”
to keep the peace:
“Sure! I’ll carry your cash
to give to her…
No! Really!
She’s fine!
Aunt Gen has a lovely home…”

In my 20’s
his dismay that I wasn’t becoming him
resigned itself to mere disappointment.
“Yeah. This is my son.
He’s a seminarian…
Ain’t that a bitch!”

In my 30’s,
her anger at him,
(he now married, again,
and I was his best man)
turned itself on me.
(Well, after all,
I had balls,
just like him,
didn’t I?)
“You look just your father!”
her hand pulling at my beard.
So I, adroitly jumping through
another of her flaming hoops,
said, “Well, Mom…
I’m either Dad or the milk-man!”
She laughed,

In my 50’s
she didn’t know me,
in her senility,
so like a filly
she flirted with me
at The Home.
It was a delight,
for a change.

In my 60’s,
when I asked him who he thought I was,
he answered from his hospital bed,
with a drugged up,
“My son, I hope!”

They’re both gone, now,

so I can shape
from smooth, soft clay,
what ever monuments I may
to how fine it was
to spend some time
with dear ol’
Mom and Dad.