NEXT TIME I'M GOING TO LISTEN

to my mama:
I'm going to stay in school
without cutting classes; I'm going
to graduate
with a degree
in something
beside bullshit;
I'm going to take
the Civil Service test
and cheat
if I have to,
or get a job
in a bank or write
corporate mush
about picnics
and new employees
and their families
and the boss' best
and biggest hardon;
I'll take tickets
in a movie theater
or hand out tickets
in traffic court
and I'll marry
early
a Jewish girl
and have Jewish kids
with names like Harvey
or Irene or Norman
or Beth or Joel
and I'll talk talk talk
about silverware patterns,
or wallpaper or indoor plumbing,
and I'll listen listen listen
to slights & betrayals & rotten kids
and I'll work overtime
every chance I get and get saving bonds
and insurance policies and a practical car that seats six with room for a dog, a small dog, a dog that yaps,
and I'll see her family and their teachers and do anything anything anything not to hear her voice and their voices and I'll go to the bathroom and I'll close the door and I'll look and see if my testicles are still attached and wonder who they belong to and how long they'll dangle there without dropping any further down into the bowl.

You'll see,
I can do it.
I'll listen,
I promise,
I'll listen.
You believe me
don'tcha?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015