Robert sips his cup of green tea;
He traces words in a note-book.
A manic flips the table and shouts:
“When you’re ready to to die let me know!”
His Mother throws books at me and cries:
“Such pretty poems! But all about me!…All about me!”
I wear the chic black trench coat of mourning.
“Ya know,” I say, “I was taught to be more dispassionate.”
Robert lowers his tea-cup and smiles: “And we’re Jewish, too!”
“Yes.” I sigh. “More tea?”
Robert nods and passes me the pot.
(c) RobGoldsten 2015