Poetry: The Best Path By Jack Phillips Lowe

The Best Path

 

Tonight, I’m recalling 

a man I called Uncle. 

The feelings confound me, 

for he cheated on my aunt 

the last twenty years 

of their marriage. 

 

Yet, I won’t sit here today 

and condemn Uncle

for doing so, because 

my aunt, at her best, 

was no easy person to bear.

Then again, neither was Uncle—

the consummate Irish drunk. 

 

I will, however, give Uncle points

for cheating twenty years 

with just one woman. 

They even shared 

a studio apartment—

a regular fuck bunny’s palace. 

 

Uncle was a good decade 

younger than my aunt—

that’s why Unc hung in there.

He figured he’d outlast her 

and collect the goodies,

few that they were,

when the Good Lord 

called Auntie home. 

 

But the Good Lord 

is a merry prankster.

He called Uncle home first,

down a path of Lucky Strikes 

and Tullamore Dew. 

A year later, 

my aunt died 

of a broken heart.

 

What happened 

to the fuck bunny?

I never knew.

Perhaps she found a new guy

at Uncle’s funeral—

which she brazenly attended. 

Maybe she found Jesus 

and lived out her life

as a pious saint. 

I never felt her path 

was worth tracing. 

 

Nevertheless, all three 

are now dead 

and seldomly mentioned 

by the wise and breathing. 

That’s the best path. 

Who am I or you 

or anyone to judge?

We’ll all get there 

eventually, anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack Phillips Lowe is a proud resident of the Chicago area. He has contributed poems and short stories to Piker Press, Clutch 2026 and Synchronized Chaos, among other outlets. Lowe’s most recent poetry chapbook, Brautigan’s Blue Moon, is available now.