-What's a day... more or less-

Well, my son. You must know by now

that your birthday slipped by without my recognition.

––You see, It’s all a matter of timing.

Usually the slippage is realized the day after

the day of the event often over morning coffee

sometimes with toast, sometimes without toast.

But, well, there you have it.

––In defense of my absentmindedness, I’ll have you know

that other notable birthdates have also slipped the surly

bonds of recognition within that space of  “a matter of timing.”

––The likes of Emily for example, sweetly fanged in Amherst.

(I can see her writing poems at her bedroom desk, her tongue

sticking out the side of her mouth, slightly sneering, can't you?)

––Oh, and Bukowski, that marvelous lunatic a few years back,

and recently your own mother for chrissakes!

Oh! And that whacky old lady across the street who keeps

yelling: "Cocksucker! Cocksucker"!
in the middle of the night and who knows why?
––So, although not excusable in the fatherly sense of the word,

as you can see, I've managed to misplace your birthdate in the presence

of some very fine company with which I'm sure you'd agree, and

accept this missive as an apology which is what is intended.