Being dead and at loose ends, my mother
Comes by sometimes to urge me
To write more about my father. I argue with her
(She'd think me altered if I didn’t).
"Haven't I written enough about him
And about you too?" She glances at my muse
Who sits idle at her desk. The two of them
Get along disturbingly well. (When I lived at home
My friends, dropping by while I was out,
Would chat with my mother for hours.)
"He has absolutely nothing scheduled today
Or, in fact, until next Monday when he'll have
A working lunch with his totem animal;
I'll pencil you in for a ragged, unrhymed sonnet."
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