-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.