Oh Gram, come on.

91

Whose body is it anyway he would say were he
still so fond of retort:
the sort of rotomontade he used to be
a champ at: his hallowed bellow:
for my part, I doggéd insist
on one more sweater, a chill in here, will it kill you;
the lambswoolly shawl although his room is mostly
flushed with sun at this time of day; & I imagine him
perspiring fiercely, somewhere down below: the onset of rot, & so
what is my reason to conserve him, I ask me, turning thus:
a fine old filet mignon going high
I've grown fond of it's true but who is
morphing into albatross, whose very socks require
an hour of putting on & getting off, & as for bathing O dear Jesus.
Let me be is what he frequently
replies, confronted with unwonted citrus juice, inundations
of B-Complex, the lustreless cheeses
one substitutes, hoping for the best: tomorrow for instance we might wake up
as we used to, who knows, the gleam in his eye, a golden bar
in his hand, forty years subsumed & done away with.
Let me die he says

- Susanne Kort


(I haven't forgotten about RWU)