the opposite of his love life

when i'd walk

through the commissary

with my father,

at 90,

him leaning onto the cart

as he slowly pushed it

down the aisles,

he'd tell me what to get off

the shelf.

i want the original oatmeal

he'd say,

not the instant,

the old fashion raison bread,

not the new

brand

or wheat,

whole milk, not skim.

Uncle Ben's rice,

plain with nothing added in.

Wonder bread

and bologna,

French's mustard.

Little Debbie cakes,

and Aunt Jemima syrup.

a dozen white eggs

and a square of scrapple,

original, not spicy.

when it came to eating,

he kept it simple,

uncomplicated,

the opposite of his love life.