You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me
Uncle Tod, snow-blowing Buffalo
from his octogenarian neighbor’s driveway,
got walloped by stroke: he seized head
to heart to toe, fell flat, stared up and into
the tiny smiling faces of flakes. If Tod
were here, his hand on my shoulder
as if a cartoon cherub, he’d giggle
his inspiring giggle and setup a punchline:
“So, a priest, a rabbi, and Jimmy Carter
walk into a bar and order one sex
on the beach with three straws….” Instead,
my father’s fist gingerly grips his sixth
of Tod’s gray casket as if Tod
wasn’t history. In the front pew,
my cousin sobs a muffled dirge into
my aunt’s sleeve. The pall is drawn.
We moan things in unison. The man
who made me sits down in the pew, sclera
red as debt. We all go silent. I find a way
to supplicate that somehow
all this ridiculous loss, heavy
on our hearts like six-foot drifts, isn’t
some sad dream, but rather, a bad joke.
© Matt Zambito
Matt Zambito
The Loch Raven Review 