Bob Hicok
The eulogy I didn’t give (XIII)
June 1, 2025
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No. 8 by Mark Rothko (1949)
Good parents make dinner.
Provide the food, the table,
the spoon, the fork, the home.
Teach you to shovel snow,
catch fireflies, shave,
use a tampon. Explain
light bulbs, stars,
the dark. Remove thorns
of trees and attempt
to extract larger thorns,
like heroin if it stabs you.
Drink little, or none,
or a lot. Try to lift you
higher in the sky
than they ever got.
And stand next in line
for death, between you
and your last breath.
When your parents are gone,
the final bit
of your childhood
runs away from home.
You're an adult now
and on your way, alone.
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