The Wrong Readers

Dad:
that one time in Van Nuys,
on Erwin ST in our first apartment
when my friends were over and
you kicked them out because you
suspected that they were on drugs
and that I was drunk, I just want
you to know that you were right.
And then when I got upset and
made my way to the door and you
didn’t let me go and I grabbed you
and you grabbed me and we slammed
each other up against the kitchen
walls, I don’t remember ever being
that close to you, in each others
arms like that; It was almost nice.
I am 22 now; I don’t know how old
you are.  I remember growing up;
things were bad. I don’t live
with you now but I write about us
all the time.  You should read it
one day but I know you never will --
you hate computers and don’t even
realize that your eldest son
is writing poetry about you and
it’s all over the internet
gawked at by all the wrong readers.  
Photo--
"Chandler, Arizona. Apartment kitchen"
United States. Office of War Information.
Overseas Picture Division. Washington Division.
Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division,
FSA-OWI Collection, [reproduction number,
LC-USF34-014286-E]
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