Just as Well I Don't Remember Much

Just As Well I Don’t Remember Much

Aunt Bedelia filled
a paper shopping bag
with Oreos, Vienna Fingers,
and a change of underwear.

She rode three buses
in the pouring rain,
and came to live with us
forever.

Aunt Bedelia once filled in
when other teachers were
sick or disillusioned –
but that was years before:

Now she offered herself
as a decent demonstration
of the all-importance of
a timely exit.

Aunt Bedelia hated
the smorgasbord
of wonderful foods that
arrive in cardboard boxes.

It didn’t matter what we planned,
or how forward we looked to it:
she wanted parsnips and
canned meat.

Aunt Bedelia commandeered
the blue barrel chair, and refused
to watch anything but channel five
from dawn to midnight:

no more spinning in the barrel;
no more flipping to check the scores;
no more Bob Newhart -
lots and lots of Lucy.

Aunt Bedelia spoke in a stage whisper,
And told me embarrassing things
about my mother, who sat beside her
trying to read the thermometer.

Aunt Bedelia grabbed me
by the bolo tie, and pulled me
to her fragrant bosom with
surprising strength.

Aunt Bedelia said,
“I still believe that
the Earth is flat, and
if you don’t, you hate

Christ and His Blessed Mother."
I let her have my bolo, and
I stomped around the block
with my rosary beads.

You may now take out your copy of Ambivalid, and Back in the Holy Bronx and read independently.

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