From His Cloud in Heaven, He Comments on His Granddaughter's Post-Memorial Service Shenanigans


My white shirts come back
from the cleaners that's been
on the corner forever
in plastic, preserved, and now she's,
big luscious tits, slipping each one
out, she's hiding in my closet,
but I can see, running her fingers down
finally, everything, every solid crease,
pulling the smooth fabric around her,
buttoning the cuffs around her--
wrong color, wrong cut, take it off!
You look as big as a house!

You know I taught drafting during the war?
I swam for U Penn. You can see the photo.
Now, she's cinching up my tux.
I paid for her college, my money for this lox-eating,
button-popping, cross-dressing clown.

I remember driving to the boardwalk.
The girls soft on the beach.
I told her about that. I could tell
she liked that. She's going to find
the books by the side of the bed.
She's going to try to tell the one
about the nun and blow it.
She can't fan a deck of cards either
and me a magician my whole life.

What I miss is sitting at the table by myself,
ice cream from long silver spoons.
I miss my tools: scale, tweezers, magnifying glass,
a Rotary pin in her every lapel.
She doesn't know what she's missing.

Deborah Bacharach

Cimarron Review
Spring/Summer 2011