The fathers had fought in WW2. They
weren’t going to dress up like a ketchup bottle.
The air was cold. The leaves began to mottle.
They drink alone. Their wives drink too, and pray
their children will not all end up the way
their husbands did: gray soon, neck wattle,
overtoothed as ancient Aristotle,
angry that their swishy sons seem gay;
angry that their daughters want to go
to law school; angry that their pretty wives
have put on weight; angry that the boys
they loved and fought with died so
suddenly and stupidly—a plane dives;
a bomb drops; and where they slept is noise.