My grown son, teasing,
thanks me for the anxiety
he inherited.  He says, “O.K., 
Boomer” when I confess I won’t
use the gender-neutral singular “they.”
Now he emails, "Hey, Dad, self-explore
your place in the world, read
Me and White Supremacy."  WTF?

Didn’t I march on Birmingham
with Dr. King?  Didn’t I triage
those students at Kent State?
Didn’t I chain myself to that smokestack
in Alberta?  Well, no, I didn’t.
But I was there in spirit. 

In his song, “My Life Is Good,”
Randy Newman jokes Bruce Springsteen
told him, “Rand, I’m tired.  How would 
you like to be The Boss for awhile?”  
When did I tell my son, “Ev, I’m tired
of being angry. How would you
like to be angry for awhile?”
                        

I dreamed I was James Bond’s twin brother, Jim. 
As the joke goes, my brother was an only child.
Our father, Andrew the armaments rep, favored him 
& why not? At five, he could field strip & reassemble 
his Walther PPK blindfolded. When he was 12, 
our maids kept getting pregnant. He could out-quip 
Shakespeare, sell “clean” coal to asthmatics. Did I hate him?
No. I worshipped him. I binge-watched all his movies, 
filled scrapbooks with his exploits & still feel pride
when a customer, reporting me to our manager ,
asks my name. “Bond,” I say, “Jim Bond.”
                        

Excuse me, you’re standing
on my tongue.  I do love
your philtrum, by the way,
how it separates your nose
from your upper lip. 

You can’t eat a fertilized egg
in Alabama.  Preborn chickens
have rights there.  Postborn 
chickens, however, may be 
baked or southern fried.
Food for thought.  

Answer this: are you 
better off now than you were 
thirty seconds ago?  I know,
I know, funny as a barrel
of hazardous waste.
But loving you?  Like
speed-dating a cobra.