This poem appears in the Fall 2014 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
You hope this is the only price to pay
For five decades of gin, a pack a day,
Young rash reviews of those you’d barely read,
But blamed (and claimed thereby unearned street-cred).
The papers, articles, quick books ensued.
Citations spread the brand; you were pursued
By big state schools, the Ivy League, think-tanks
With catchy acronyms—a nation’s thanks.
Now tiny brown Hispanic women bring
Your pills. You lurch at every land-line ring.
(It’s not the boys. They have their lives apart
And years ago disdained the scholar’s art.)
Your daughters come and leave just when they can.
That willing mentoree has found a Theory man.