Last night he slowly crossed off the last day
before the circled one. Thick purple Xs
line every page of Gary’s calendar.

The cake is safely baked, the oven dials
all pointing up at "off" the way he likes them.
I learned my lesson that awful Thanksgiving
when I forgot to keep checking the turkey.
When I set the table, he’ll bring Football down
in both hands, like an egg, old pockmarked thing,
and set the stand up in the place of honor.

Friends who come for dinner quickly learn
to take care where they put the serving bowls.
Leave one by Gary and he thinks it’s his
grim duty to empty it. He forklifts loads
of mashed potatoes, meat, or applesauce,
until you move the bowl out of his reach,
then turns his full attention to his plate.

I’ll light the candles for him and we’ll sing.
He’ll listen, so we don’t skip any words,
then blow, without our help. Twenty for Football.
Thirty candles on Gary’s last cake
and all the family birthdays aren’t enough
for him, our ageless baby. Now he wants
a day for Basketball and Baseball too.