The slightest gasp had brought him to her bed
With tissues, pills, health regimens prescribed
Ad nauseam.  Still, she mimicked life, imbibed
His youthful fuel while staying “almost dead.”
Adults had questioned why he’d never wed,
This tweedy neuter closely moored beside
His ever-ailing mom – he could have thrived,
But chose to be a mama’s boy instead.

His image comes back through the years, as now
My mother mutters long-dead names.  Her wails
Disturb my sleep, and dreams dissolve like salt
On bitten tongues.  Remembering always how
Our taunts assumed he’d had a choice, I pray
The world won’t see my duty as a fault.