After bawling comes the bawdy praise
of Jeff, Joel, Jerry, Justin, Josh, and Jon.
My youngest uncle Jason, slick but dazed,
decides that Father Hess has sermonised too long.
His belt comes off, his hands uncap a flask,
and discount hooch moistens the parish scene.
Embarrassed by the cackles of my aunts,
my cousin Jake and I bemoan our teens.
But now at nearly twenty-one, I toss
back tawny brews with inborn ease and poise.
I, too, must bear a "J", that clannish cross,
a stigma placed on all of Grandma's boys.
My genes were teased and tallied at the wake.
I cannot spurn the spread of Maureen's traits.