We haven’t seen each other for years.
At tonight’s gathering, it’s take-out
lasagna and tired salad.
My step-nephew chats
amiably, sunglasses atop
his constant baseball cap. His mother
says Steve’s been traveling—
launching nephew into storied visits
to the Vegas adult entertainment expo.
He fetches photos to illustrate reported
marvels—pendulous latex breasts,
perfect be-thonged bottoms,
astonishingly realistic
woman dolls.
Pictures pass over cheesecake
and decaf in murmured appreciation.
When they are laid aside
conversation returns
to the Colorado Rockies’ playoff hopes,
then shifts to Hannah Montana, now singing
on the Disney channel.
Visits to seldom seen family can be enlightening. On this early Denver evening former boundaries between the banal and exotic interwove, making both seem oddly detached and disembodied. Whatever it is that is happening in our culture is breathtaking, anything but mundane. However, at least one thing remains clear–in one way or another, mom will always be screwing with a man’s libido.
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