We have worn it out.
Like the joke your uncle always told
at every
fish-fry, bris, or confirmation dinner.
Cigar held tightly in his left hand.
The smoke caught in the bush of eyebrows . . .
forested mustache—
the same shriveled punch line
(his voice quivering under weight
of delivery)
about gorillas and flatulence.

We are the moment afterwards,
Where eyes roll, Aunt Gertrude hangs her
head . . . skin falls in folds, like melting
butter . . . your mother quickly asking
if I would like more bread.
Your uncle’s arms raised,
mouth open, muttering . . . what?  what?