Every happy hour, she pulls a sour
face. She's stoned, procrastinates.
Dad wants grandbabies. When
will you slow down, fondle
the brown-edged scentless roses
you found in our box of wedding things?
What happened to that boy, the shy one
who worked in accounting? Still in
that converted Victorian parlor,
all of your dresses on the floor?
Dental insurance and you don't
hate us anymore, I think.
Maybe you should drink
to the lucky ones who've come home
draped in flags, bagged and tagged?
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