What's wrong with us that we don’t marry?
Why have we not had children? “I don’t know,"
I say, lying. Papa raises his rocks glass,
Parts his lips, eyes glinting, the recrimination
Swallowed instead of spoken. Age spots
Brown the oft photographed cheeks. A crowd
Of future generations won’t bear
His name, fading, finally, into the anonymous
Mash of the unremarkable.