A HUNK OF SINECURE
I've got this patterned jacket, worn
like lightbulbs flashing red. I wear
it only to investitures and funerals,
where I, usually, sit reading the paper.
People mostly let me be, except for
people like, say, my younger sister's
older cousin's uncle's father, the one
'who lost a leg in the battle of Midway'
and is now, incredibly, 93. I always
let it be, and, if he asks, I give him
the sports section to read. Or - as
he puts it - 'Oh, oh anything, but
not the obituaries, OK?'
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