A change of clothes and then a meal.
An altercation, with the consequence that she leaves.
Cool chick changes, reverts to wasp
“An omelet, bonny Kate? And sit.”
“On a moveable? It will not bear me.”
“I mean to bear thee.”
“Don’t go all Shakespeare on me,
I gotta go.”
But then she said
She would not come
Into my bed.
I said, “Your mum,
I wish her dead.”
She whacked my bum
I grasped her head
She said, “You dumb
Ass, don’t you tread
We are prohibited from shouting, “Fire,” in a crowded theater where a (citizen, terrorist, madman, patriot, bad guy) will shoot, among others, a legislator who voted against gun control. The legislator’s good friend, asked who permitted the gun in the theater, will burst into hot tears of grief.
Still he says, eyes dry, gun rights are in the Constitution. Other rights aren’t. Women fighting for choice. Sanctuary. Union organizing. Driving a car. Registering to vote. The legislator’s friend explains that there is room for disagreement. These issues evolve. But on guns, the wording is clear.
He refuses to define militia.
Popping wheelies on a walker equipped with bright yellow tennis balls to keep it from slip-sliding away, he makes light of his infirmities in a dangerous, delightful way. Nothing interferes with watching Wimbledon on ESPN on the Fourth of July.
An old man, young at ninety, never one to let pain triumph over life. Not early on when it might have done. Not in the war. Not when the press of reporting the news, nor the ups and downs of politics sent him low and high for fifty years. Not even when his dear wife slid away like a dream.