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My infant son gurgles, mad about oblivious. Or he sleeps in his stroller which my mad about mother teeters, unaware of her movement. Taut ropes of stoicism and heartache draw my mother’s face into old mad about age. If my father is there, which I doubt, he is probably sitting in the rear, not next to her, his eyes avoiding everyone. 19 HOURS AGO. I sat against the wall in a featureless beige cubicle, pressing the knuckles of my spine hard against the cement. Joseph Korn argued with me in his stern, sometimes fatherly voice, then softened and finally sat, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. When leaving he hovered over me for several minutes, bending on old knees to squeeze my shoulder as I stared at our shoes. We were both wearing Allen Edmunds. His were spotless. ABOUT 8 AND A HALF YEARS AGO. The cigar-chomping Bulldog clock in Rudy’s struck midnight, both paws pointing at the 12.
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