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I wrote a lot of love poetry in 1994, all my love poetry was written in my 20s.

You sit at your desk,
Unable to look out
At the street—
The pane reflective.

Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.

Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.

Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.

Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.

The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.

You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.

I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.

©1994 Chris Abraham

May 07, 1994 06:35 PM