Tom

I'd really like input on this poem. So if you have see anything you think is awkward or doesn't make sense do tell. Likewise, if any parts of the poem make you say to yourself "this Tucker fellow is the next king of poetry," do tell.


My cousin Tom smoked until his grand children were in kindergarten. When I was 5 I spilled frosted flakes on my crotch. He said he'd done it a dozen times, and that I shouldn't be embarrassed about it: he's always been my favorite cousin.

Now he's got emphysema and big bushy beard. I only see him at reunions, he can't be around camp fires and he wheezes all the time.

Last time I saw him, I was drinking a High Life out of a styrofoam cooler. Tom asked me if he could have one, said he'd have to owe me till the next reunion. Under his breath he muttered "if I make the next one." I told him he'd better because he owes me a beer.

My cousin Scottie was 17 when his dad died of cancer. At the next reunion Tom took him aside, gave him a beer, told Scottie the only thing he looked forward to about these reunions was having a beer with Scottie's dad and that he needed to have a beer with Scottie.

A few years later Scottie told me if he ever met cancer he'd kick him in the balls. I don't think I'll ever know exactly how he feels but I do know this: if I don't get a beer at the next reunion emphysema better find a cup.