THE EULOGY I DIDN’T GIVE (XIII)

Good parents make dinner.

Provide the food, the table,

the spoon, the fork, the home.

Teach you to shovel snow,

catch fireflies, shave,

use a tampon. Explain

light bulbs, stars,

the dark. Remove thorns

of trees and attempt

to extract larger thorns,

like heroin if it stabs you.

Drink little, or none,

or a lot. Try to lift you

higher in the sky

than they ever got.

And stand next in line

for death, between you

and your last breath.

When your parents are gone,

the final bit

of your childhood

runs away from home.

You're an adult now

and on your way, alone.