“I need a transplant,” Dad said, and before I could even back up my spreadsheet, the old man had tripped over the coffee table and windmilled into my lap.

I’d always thought of my father as a person only in the abstract, of course. But once that cruller-loving flesh bag was slumped across my chair, pinching my carpal-tunnel arm? Well.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Felt dread of something after death—
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Long life—To die, to sleep—No more—
And by a sleep to say we end

someone will take you, poem
don’t give up
keep fighting the good fight
chin up

sex with coworkers
is not recommended

He imagines moving to kiss her
And her pirouetting away,
Not knowing if she’s compelled to practice
At that very impractical instant, or attempting to play,