The Last Bird

Three lively and retired ladies in their late sixties were sitting on a bench in a park during a pre-COVID-19 time. They were discussing the nice weather they were having in October, a couple of weeks before Halloween, when usually it rained and the falling leaves snatched the show. The trees still stole the spectacle with their tears, but only lovers could be suffused in such solicitude.

Following the customary niceties afforded to such creatures of yesteryear, they began talking about the important stuff. What’s important in life? Family, many say. We can only hope. Happiness, they say, though it’s fleeting like a rose trying to survive in a vase. Health can be rarely disputed by anyone. Anything else? Wealth is too rare and most of those who have it are not quite well. Family, then, since it was, after all, what they really wanted to talk about.

“My son,” said the first lady, looking intently into the other two’s eyes, “finished medical school at the top of his class, and only a few years later he’s already the chief surgeon at Mount Sinai Hospital. I’m so lucky to have a doctor for a son,” she concluded with a content smile.

“My son,” said the second lady, looking as intently into the other two’s eyes, “got a position in one of the best law firms in the country, perhaps the entire world, before finishing his degree, and today, only a few years later, he’s already a valued partner. I’m so lucky to have a lawyer for a son,” she concluded with a similar content smile.

The third lady didn’t say anything. The other two looked at her, beginning to feel pity for her, assuming that her son didn’t amount to anything worth telling. Yet, the third lady was smiling with even more content than the other two had shown. “What are you smiling about?” They asked in unison.

“Oh, I was thinking about my son.”

“Pray tell! What has he been up to?” They asked, all eyes.

“Oh, not much. Except for his, how should I put it, dick.”

“His dick?” The other two replied both alarmed and disarmed.

“Apparently. I haven’t seen it, of course. But I’ve heard enough from everyone to believe it’s true.”

“Continue!” The other two encouraged.

“Well, if ten birds, or is it twelve, stand on his dick, they barely touch each other.”

“What?” whooped the other two.

“I know. It’s unbelievable. I don’t know where he got it from. I guess the old adage also works for dicks. Two shorts can yield one tall.”

They all laughed, continuing the small talk, though their minds were dirtier than a politician.

The first lady was first to come to her senses. “I exaggerated about my son,” she said, lowering her head. “He’s just a run-of-the-mill physician. A doctor, nonetheless.”

The second lady spoke next. “I also overstated my son. He’s an ambulance-chasing lawyer. But he has a bad back and can’t run a lot, she concluded with her head looking up.”

The third lady didn’t say anything. The other two looked at her, beginning to feel shame for themselves, assuming that her son was a king of some kind. The third lady was looking at her nails, wondering if they looked as great as when she had painted them red. Suddenly, she said: “You know, the tenth bird, or is it the twelfth, has to stand on one leg.”

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What If You Became: A Bluebird

What if you became a bluebird

While I was writing a sonnet

Could my love for you be deferred

I would not bet my life on it

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I would caress your head and wings

As you move your beak to my heart

Rubbing your neck against its strings

Singing my melancholy’s part

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You would turn back into lover

Knowing what part of you was key

To bring health back to this cover

Of a pinprick in love with thee

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I would hold your naked body

With every sexual intent

While thinking of something bawdy

To sing to you before my bent

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You would disperse in my embrace

Travel up with blue wings and tail

I would brace for your airy grace

As I wrote you wore a blue veil