My Son
My son drinks coca-cola.
My son stays out all hours of the night.
I, wrapped up in my card parties
and bingo,
lose track of his comings and goings.
Time passes.
He is at a football game one day,
cheering loudly,
then on the phone with a friend.
He says, "Hi, how are you?"
He gets some coke and drinks it.
He never yells.
Is always gentle.
"Bruce, are you there?" this
every Thursday from me,
the garbage needs to be taken out.
This is no coincidence.
I must take the cans out.
When I realized I loved my son,
it was from witnessing the
in-and-out attitude on him.
This house is his waystation.
It fascinates him.  I am comforted.
I would like to talk to Bruce,
but he's never there.
He's waking up to go to work.
He eats the egg sandwiches
on the outside, away from home.
Bruce is my son.
I wouldn't dare bother him at the television.
He takes no interest in my activities.
At least I love every card party

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frederic
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Synopsis
If I were a full-time writer, I wouldn't be able to leave the theme of family alone.
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