My Virtual Son,
In the same pjs for the past two months,
bedroom door closed,
all meals desk-side, dishes stacked, bathing bimonthly,
with your running excuse, “I have class; I have homework,”
just like the other pandemic senior Zoomers.
Your teachers report you’re a model citizen.
Sometimes fear is funny,
as we creep around your anger,
careful not to disturb routine
(if even one bottle in your “pill hill”
tin box is out of place, there’s hell to pay).
And if we confront, demand time
off the laptop, cell
you snarl, you bully:
You’ve got one son in the grave,
and another, mentally ill, on the way…
So what about me, huh?
What will I become?
as if we don’t know.