(So much for filial devotion)
The lampshade in the corner
made a charming angel shadow
& the armchairs, sofa, table
were unusually mute;
one could almost hear
an organ grind out
glory to the father
but Jake’s ghost was in the ashcan
with the rinds flung down the chute
and the guests were busy
reeling home – to sleep off
all we’d served them –
& she muttered serves the bastards right,
if it wakes them in the night
or they’re sick as dogs come morning
as she’d tinkered with the punchbowl
and the lunchmeat wasn’t white.
Good riddance to the old man’s pack
of mooching pals and cronies –
a nasty bunch of slugs they were,
cheapskate scroungers, every one.
Good riddance to his ugly puss
his lousy rough house manners –
stealing money from her bank
and wishing she had been a son!
…yes, that’s what his daughter said
sad he’s gone? I’m glad he’s dead!