I’m sorry son but we can’t go to the Ganges;
Not tonight, not anytime soon. I’m standing
Here in my pith helmet and khakis, but we cannot,
I say, no matter what form your begging takes,
Find our seats and watch the props
Catch: it’s impossible; I know it could not be.
You cannot relieve yourself in Mary’s purse.
For our purposes, we should consider
That handbag closed for good, although I
Understand the temptation. I’ve squatted
Over it a few times in my day.
She leaves it so casually open and she’s never
In the room. But no, no!
Bad news: son, you cannot grow anymore.
It is imperative that you obey me.
Space, as they say, is limited, and I
Your father have already filed claim
To what was there – you cannot bubble
Over into a neighbor’s (what are you, pie?)
One must know what height to aspire to
And try one’s best to make due.
I’ve made a will, and I’m dying.
You must not follow any of my wishes.
This is as important as a morning pill:
I’ve scrambled everything. I think I’m going
Back to where I was before birth –
My judgment’s soft and pitted like foam.
A man is a waffle in life and the iron is hot.
I was always a dead man, and I sentenced you too.
Please, son, I beg you, ignore everything…