when the teacher called me in to help you
after you peed your pants
because you couldn't undo the button on them
with your little, chunky, clumsy hands.
Mom bought you elastic-waist jeans
from Lands End from then on.
You were big, anyway,
and they suited you and your tummy.
But you cried when you realized
every other little boy had pants with buttons.
I remember the day in 7th grade
when you tried out for the basketball team
and pledged to stop eating red meat
because you were tired of getting made fun of
and me calling you "Fat Patch"
You made turkey sandwiches
and lost 20 pounds
and grew 6 inches
and then made the team.
Dad yelled as he coached you from the stands
and molded you into his star point guard.
I remember the day a couple years ago
when you told Dad you quit playing basketball
and dropped out of college
and met a guy named Jonas in New York
who would turn you into a male model.
You moved into a piece of shit apartment
with a Vietnam vet in the middle of Hells' Kitchen.
You found yourself an agent
and started wearing skinny jeans
and stole all of my t-shirts
when you came home for Christmas.
I remember the days in February
when I saw your runway pictures online
and you sent me the Barney's catalogue
they paid you $5,000/day to shoot.
And now you don't answer the phone when we call you.