After the chicken and noodles in Irvington,
I asked my mother point-blank
Whether she would rather be a pig satisfied
Or Socrates unsatisfied.
She said. “Don’t you call me a pig.”
And then I asked my father
Whether he thought the sexually inhibited middle class
Would ever cast off its hypocritical restraints
And acknowledge the pleasures of orgiastic excess.
He put down the sports page and told me,
“Don’t talk dirty.”
I’ll never teach my parents to be Village intellectuals.
They just don’t want to benefit from all the things I know.
I come each week with reading lists to elevate their view of life.
I think they always watch TV the minute that I go.
I bring them Portuguese on tape to study while they sleep at night.
I tell them if they concentrate there’s still a chance to grow.
I bring them nice Picasso prints to hang up in the breakfast nook.
I think they always take them down the minute that I go.
I’ll never teach my parents to be Village intellectuals.
They like gin rummy better than they like Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
They listen quite politely while I clarify world thought for them.
I think they always laugh at me the minute that I go.