a self-proclaimed son-of-a-bitch with a deformed eye—
lives in a trailer on the grounds of the old Euclid Beach amusement park
and eats Banquet T.V. dinners.
He gives me one of his watches,
the brown leather band clinging
by way of staples
to the scratched face.
The manufacturer's engraving on the back says, "Elegant Quality."
He always apologizes for a life that I was never a part of.
I buy him flannel shirts from Wal-Mart and bring him meatloaf from Bob Evans.
When he dies
he leaves me his savings of $500.
And I spend all of him.
J.R. Corey teaches in the Department of Writing Studies, Rhetoric, and Composition at Syracuse University. Her work has appeared in South Loop Review Online, The California Journal of Women Writers, and Survive and Thrive: A Journal for Medical Humanities and Narrative as Medicine.