You're still out there.
Adrienne would call me if you died.
Or had another heart attack;
when you had the first one
she even called Gregor,
and she hadn't talked to him for seven years.
Do you still fire that miniature cannon
every Fourth of July?
Do you still listen to Pictures at an Exhibition
and discuss Wittgenstein
as if you had never left college?
Do you still drink half a gallon of wine
before bedtime?
Do you still smack your lips and leer
at teenage girls trying to be good daughters,
who are still standing there,
frozen,
who still don't know
how to react?