As youths,
we would laugh
and loudly whisper,
(when we thought
they couldn’t hear),
about physical oddities:
Mr. M’s errant
and grey
eyebrow hairs.
Mr. C’s gut
that stuck
out so much
you could balance
a martini glass
on it.
Uncle B’s bright white,
bra-less moobs that he showed,
shirtless,
in the summer sun.
Mr. B’s stick legs,
covered to mid-calf with
white socks that matched
his skin.
Mr. P’s back hairs
(we wondered if Mrs. P
brushed or combed them).
Mr. E’s chest hairs,
curling white against his
tan and leathered skin.
They are all dead.
Now I hear,
again,
youthful whispers
and laughs
from behind
my back.
