Litany (after Billy Collins)

You are the diving board in my mother’s pool.

You are the rides on the back of my uncle’s motorcycle.

You are the fake ID I used to make my way into movies, 
And the butter on my “free” popcorn.

You are the no-trespassing sign we ignored in Arbon,

And the condom you left in your khakis on the couch.

However, you are not the SPF30 sunscreen I use in July,

The lifeguard on duty at the YMCA,

Or the antibacterial hand-sanitizer next to my kitchen sink,

And you certainly are not my overdraft protection from the bank.

There is just no way you are my overdraft protection.

It is possible that you are the whipped cream on my non-fat decaf toffee-nut latte, 
Maybe even the chocolate mints the maid left behind, 
But you are not even close to being the lock on the gas cap of my 1978 baby-shit-yellow Volvo.

And a quick look through your view-finder will show that you are

Neither the oxygen canister Samantha carried which kept her from coming with us to Cannes, 
Nor the groping TSA agents troubling terrorist look-alikes.

It might interest you to know, speaking of things necessary, that I am the perfect metaphor.

I also happen to be the final slip-knot on your daughter’s favorite pink blanket,

That kid named Zook in your catechism class,

And the last chapter in Marilynne Robinson’s Home – the one that made us feel.  

I am also the flowers on your grave,

And the postlude on Easter Sunday.

But don’t worry, I am not the diving board in my mother’s pool.

You are still the diving board in my mother’s pool.

You will always be the diving board in my mother’s pool,

Not to mention the rides on the back of my uncle’s motorcycle,

And somehow the “free” buttered popcorn.