This is last week's poem, revised:
How to Show Your Mother She Raised You Right
Christine Couvillon
Don't suck down your Dr. Pepper
like a Gatorade. Make sure
she sees you with a hardback once
a week, and hide any Fabio-encrusted
dust jackets. Call her just to talk. Tell her
about a rude or ridiculous person
hitting children on the bus or waiting
for sold-out Superbowl tickets.
Don't laugh at South Park. Exfoliate.
Know who Emily Post is.
Only say "shit" when a semi
crushes your sternum. Read
Country Gardens and Vogue. Agree
about the curtains in the foyer. Agree
that the neighbor with her oversized dogs
and chicken-fried-chicken odor
is white trash. Don't describe
what a rotting trailer filled with spent
cigarettes smells like. Agree
that you won't marry someone who picks
his teeth at the dinner table or
his women by their fingernails.
Eat wheat germ or berries with breakfast.
Translate a poem for Mother's Day from a language
her mouth can't handle. Don't
tell her your favorite brand of vodka
or why you didn't want ballet lessons.
Listen to her mascara shade lectures.
Don't let her see you steal
glances at unhairy men.
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