I don’t care what the doctors say.

There isn’t a single part of me
that doesn’t serve a purpose –
no extra appendages,
useless features,
or vestigial organs.

Because every piece of my being
has been willed into loving you.

Even when the cancer takes me over
I’ll leave a note on the door, saying
“Don’t forget the milk.”


A scotch of six decades
rolls about the heavy tumbler
in my left hand.

Perched at the keys,
a dark-skinned woman
(of a similar vintage)
croons a dulcet melody,
evoking pungent memories
of times I’ve never known.

I am twenty-two.
And I gulp my drink
with haphazard intent,
as men my age are wont to do.
The lesson burns as I take it in.

Her name is Pam.
And recognizing the signs
of my captive entrancement,
she offers to take the lead.

We sing a duet about paper moons.