Patch

I remember the day at Shepard Elementary

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.