-I know-

To my son,

the closest of relations, now dwelling in Los Angeles

I know your day is long, each hour folding over

the hour before it making adjustments

to the tools of another man's trade. Impossible!

and when It’s time to go home, the air outside is thick

with barbed particles and you're thinking about the music,

about that chord, the missing chord to make the bass-line work

but the 101's a frustrating slab in sheetmetal,–– the traffic
sticks to the windshield like a mad collage 

and the last thing on your mind should be an ongoing sense

of responsibility to read the poems and I know it's as if you've

left one job at the end of the day only to travel to another job

at the end of the same day and yes, I know, believe me, I know,

but I'm asking you to find the time to read the poems unless
that's the time assigned to having fun with Jenny
and if that's the case, well, of course, screw the poems.