THE WAY THINGS ARE

My mom always brings
home the nine-grain bread.
She puts half the loaf
in a bag and sucks the air out.
She twisty ties it within an inch of its life.
Then, it goes into the freezer,
even though we eat
more than half a loaf by the time
the second half is frozen.

My daughter
made sploshy drums
in the bath tub
with a cup full of water
and a wet wash cloth.
She also chants cheers
she’s learned at basketball games.

My friend told me
I’m not skinny,
but I’m voluptuous and beautiful.
Gay men rarely lie
to your face,
so I’m inclined to believe him.

My grandmother
passed away
twelve days ago.
She looked stern
in the honey colored box.
The mortician told us
we could touch her hands.
I already know what dead hands
feel like.
I touch my own every day.

My friend slurs her words
when she’s had too much to drink.
She’s double dipping chips into
the salsa and interchanging bites
with swigs of Corona.
Thankfully, she never says, “Well…
it all goes to the same place!”

I moved three times in ’99.
I threw out clothes and high school memories.
I saved “The Chronicles of Narnia” books
and my R.E.M. t-shirts.
I still have the wedding album
containing dozens of pictures
of me pretending I didn’t just make
the hugest mistake.

I add up time
with fortune cookies.
I’m still looking for the one
with the winning lottery ticket.
The government takes 20%.

Bastards.