Paul Watsky

wanted her mama’s
boy should observe,

assimilate, jones
along, rehearse the con-

tagious simpers, the
shiteating key-

board grin till ruffles
sprouted parasitically

from each orifice, pearl-
buttoned seersucker grew

on me, and I’d rented a fussy
closet just down

the hall from chère
Mumsy, utterly handy

for a deux after-
dinner couch cuddles: such

a soft and glossy full-
fed tick/son, tsk-

tsking her bewailed
chronic imaginary

unhealth. Then she’ll needs
must ordain—never

mind the mechanics—grand-
kids. Yet how

could I manage? Hire
some rough trade to jam

his primed baster into
my butt? Dream

myself up a slavish
female other-half pre-

programmed to the fan-
girl’s frequency, her ur-

gent bulletins on just
about everything? My life—

had I blissed out watching
our maestro tickle his

ivories, had I truly listened
and obeyed.