I am trying to remember the myriad ways I knew
to put you down. I used to recite them all
before sleep, my true calling,
my diploma that almost turned into a PhD.
Today, I cannot bear it if you’re kind.
I am trying to remember the catalog of your
movements. There was a time when I could tell
whether your father got drunk again last night, whether
your mother was quiet. This was more of an art, than a science.
Today, I am not drunk enough to be an artist.
You’re still my greatest opus. I notice, your
dad is probably out of town. Your mom
made pancakes for breakfast. Let’s keep this clean.
I give you your records, you give me my books.
Let’s keep it clean. Don’t make a liar out of me.
Don’t ask if I “ever loved you”.
Today, for a second time, for a second,
I still do.