Before Bobby's brain tumor grew
to the size and shape of a castor bean,
he rode his toy motorcycle down the blue roof
onto the barefoot girl in a bathrobe--
where she was on her knees counting ants.
Luckily aspirin and band-aids were available.
The incident was quickly forgotten,
but not before a pastry shaped
like a mule's ear
issued from Sylvia's oven.
Each of us, including our barefoot neighbor,
got a tasty chunk. It was the last time
we were all together. Bobby's virus