The queen mother calls to mother west wind.
Let's be nice, all right. Bless the castle, and the titles, and protocol.
Dad asks if there's anything I'd like to ask, like, before he dies,
anything I'd like to know. I ask, "Dad, where did your dad come from?"
What I'd really like to ask is, "Why did you throw that huge glass of chocolate milk at me when I said I was moving out, at 17?
And did either of you read my last book?"

And why do you tell people
you're going to kill the man in the trailer next door?"
I'm waiting here alone, drinking tea instead of gin, I'm respectable,
my brother tells me, on the phone, that
civilized people do not leave their parents in their old age.
I have ice floes in my mind, everywhere white. Fur-trimmed mittens, arms linked. The backs of hooded parkas. The mist whips between them and me. Ice floes aweigh. I feel guilt and relief. I should run after them, bring them back, and serve them tea. The desire to run after them has disappeared. I grab the door of the plane, hoist myself in. The propeller starts, I don't look down. Are they waving up at me?
They have no plan, I suspect this means
I'll have to take over, and rescue them.

Tea is at 11 and again at 3. Breakfast comes right after coffee, which is at 8, with a muffin or a scone. Breakfast is oatmeal and lunch is at noon,
dinner is at 6 right after the 5 o'clock news.
Dad talks too much, stories from 35 years ago, something someone said
at the office is still bothering him.
Or what about the time he threatened to throw
the tax auditor down the stairs.
Or the time he turned the hose on the guy next door.
Or what big losers Margaret Atwood and Joni Mitchell are.
The queen mother calls to mother west wind. Let's be nice, all right.
Bless the castle, and the titles, and protocol.
What I'd really like to ask is, "Why did you throw that huge glass of chocolate milk at me when I said I was moving out, at 17?
The queen mother calls to mother west wind, to mother west wind.
Bless the castle, and the titles, and protocol.