Discharge Planning
Despite botched carcass, slacker tongue slithered
out to the right then slipsliding iguanalike,
our prickly doyen idol weighs lightly tonight.
One molar left trolling hour after hour
for veggies and crumbs among fetid smooth gums,
her ninety-nine years appear
no delicious tooth fairy to deciduous kids
but rather spiteful Olivia J. Dragon,
fifties tube rancorous puppet knockoff,
Kukla-ish forerunner to more feminist Muppets.
The dowager's become sour post stroke,
pursed parchment lips gurgling bronchial plugs
gray and waxy like her waning.
So why isn't this graver?
Skeletal yet unbroke,
Livvy suddenly bolts up, unlocks slits,
unglues claws from the ICU nest's electrical bevy.
Newly opened dazzling eyes converge on a menorah unlit,
the precious Luminaire brought for Shabbes
by the junior rabbi, lips fretting under breath
something about his supersized knit kippa still revealing a bald ego.
Staring at sweet silky Dr. Chopra giggle a heavy PBS pitch
but pissed by a shrill soapier opera
swooned by the shared room's gorkier sow-eared matron,
my mother-in-law glares acidly past Deepak
at GET WELL SOON, DISCHARGE IS 10AM!
on the greaseboard. Flying off the handle, she laughs,
"Bullcrap, I'm more'n half gone already!"
