It feels like the end.
I shave my legs and put on lotion that smells like peaches,
real peaches,
not perfume, but summersunhotjuicerunningdownmychin,
sticky sweet.
My son's face looks like mine when he holds his tears back.
I wonder if his father will notice.
I put on my Christmas dress,
too small now.
-
Summer sweet, winter bitterest.
Dog hair sweep, houseplant killer.
The wheels are broken,
but it's icy,
so it doesn't matter anyway.
I name my bank account Fatty,
but you can't outrun viral antipathy,
a pandemic of stupidity,
so it doesn't matter anyway.
-
It's the end.
And we still have the BeeGees
and the Rolling Stones
and Radiohead
but it's with commercials,
for subscriptions I don't want or need,
so it doesn't matter anyway.
-
And it's time;
We still have a sterling silver tea service
and crystal
and champagne
and fatty, fatty, labgrownsweet vittles,
delivered to our door, with a tip,
with a tip,
with a tip.
Last supper, but on Zoom.
And then we take it offline.