Unzippered speech of children,
shushed at school and museum,

competes with the can-opener
whine of the bright red Amigo,

battery-powered, rubber-wheeled,
designed for invalids. Like

this fat fuck, sagging, jowled,
sweating through the mall,

squinting and shopping, cursing
escalators and me, his impatient

two-bit summer stock son. Paying
with plastic all debts except

mine, all consuming, negotiating
the parking lot and arguing

our way back home, the perfect
Sunday finish. Will Copaxone

fix what beta interferons
promised but didn’t? Napping

after a tin of Sara Lee
and Dr. Pepper, with myelin

sheath scraped and rotted,
from the inside out, he dreams.