Fawn

There is a collection of poems about my mother

 in a bottle -- They had need to be rolled.
They wouldn't otherwise fit.

Some ladies kinden with age, some wilt.

There is an actress who made it from the silent screen to the stage.
She was twenty-six then. Now she is  ninety-eight. 

There are writers who might never read another's page.

There are men who will always be late.

There is a box -- a collection of suggestions for my father. 

He needn’t worry as I will never send it off.  

Though, and he should know -- 

They aren’t in the cruel tone he might suppose, 

But soft examples, 

Studies I’ve been conducting.

Some couples find it easier after they tear.  

Togetherness can be the greatest chore.

Some men’s eyes lighten after fifty-four.

There are hunters who have put down their guns.  

I am not the only son.

There are the papers I wrote in college, marked up in red.

In the red you can read the notes from my teachers --
that I sometimes get lost in my own language. 

That I sometimes sound contrived.

I've the mind to write and remind

them that I was only twenty-five.