Monday, October 02, 2006

Kin

My aunt drank rum, and made a holy din
Singing along to what was on the radio,
Munching on chips. My uncle took on, though,
Insisting, “You’re no kin of mine! It’s sin,
All this display!” She also liked her skin
To breathe, and strolled out on the patio
Half-dressed, even on mornings after snow,
And giggled when my uncle cried, “Come in!”

My aunt would walk around the house in slips,
Or half-slips, wearing a half-open robe,
A trial to the epidermiphobe.
Somehow, my uncle had to come to grips
With music, liquor, and potato chips.
He did it, suffering the pangs of Job.

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