I Wish He Had Left Home

I am in a bad mood he says, wanting attention. My ears hear, but my heart will not stop. I am in the bowels of a chapter, and it is getting serious. My next thought is crucial; I type a bit faster. Trying to drown him out, and do successfully. I wish I had some attention, he says. I wish he had a date, I wish he had a wife. I wish he had left home. But here he is, at twenty-six. Unable to entertain himself, dwelling on negatives. Go see your mother, I say to my nephew. Glad when he disappears to let her pour him a glass of milk. If he comes back with that whining voice, I cannot guarantee his safety.