Monday, December 12, 2011

4 AM by Michael Estabrook

We’re both up in bed.
I’m telling her,
“We have nothing in common, you know:
completely different lines of work,
live on opposite coasts of the country,
don’t have any sports in common,
he’s a golfer and I swim,
no hobbies the same,
he certainly doesn’t read poetry
or have any interest in the arts,
I have no interest in traveling like he does,
or in all these modern electronic gadgets.
We have nothing, except for our family history,
we have nothing else in common.”
She’s sleepy certainly, but replies finally,
“None of that matters. He’s your son.”

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