Banquet

I've heard stories of lost vicarious pride and gained and aged shame at father-son soccer tournaments, of garbage men knocking on your wife's door at that early morning hour which is more elusive than the imperceptible midnights back from the bar, and pawing those amorous folds in the dress that you bought her. They're all good stories to tell by camplight or dark light coming up from the street lamps on the roofs and in the closets, at least while you're down in your bed, with the covers swathing your vital points and my hunching over because of your clothes but straightening sometimes and shivering your shirts into aural ambiguity in your mind and fear in your pants and you pulling up them covers until you've without your eyes feeling instead the sheets against your eyelashes. They're all good, but I wish your momma wouldn't think and call and talk and "Hello." We'll call it even tonight and you're losing a limb for sure.