My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
My George Mikan doll is in storage.
My little basketball plaything that was so complete,
Even to the elastic strap on his teeny safety glasses.
I used to chuck George across the den to my dog, Pan,
Who always licked at Uncle Ed’s shoes.
Uncle Ed had cordovans coated glassy with doggie saliva.
He’d smoke Camels without polish and sit awake
All night hollering, "Bring back Fred Allen!"
Mother loved Uncle Ed like a brother.
She used to say, "If my ebony chopsticks were not
In storage, we could have a real oriental fling."
Uncle Ed was busy picking smoke scraps off his tongue.
Pan knew the score. He saw me kissing
That long-legged doll in the bathroom mirror.
My mother’s ebony chopsticks are not in storage.
No more than my father’s ashes are in that rusty urn
On the mantle near the plaid stamps and the cuff links.