Mommy, Daddy, Bobby

Sometimes I forget if we are heading
toward the winter or the spring.
I’m loath to think it’s both. And more
bemused at the confusion of remembering –
today – when I woke up and got up,
shambling to the bathroom, grrr inside
my head – that my family were dead.

Forgive me if I’m given to an existential
rambling: I suppose it has to do
with this. If I no longer know what
good or bad means, and if I’ve completely
lost my bearings with regard to time –
no longer buying into future, present,
past – it‘s probably all implicated in

this oddly vast repast of dwelling in
a recognition: feasting on the most
and least of really knowing solitude.
Mommy, Daddy and my brother Bobby:
either you got screwed, or I did – or
the lot of us. That’s the thing, though,
isn’t it. There never were a lot of us.


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