I Need A Stamp For This?

Dear Pa,

 

            Never wrote a letter ever.

            I’m told e-mail’s just not the same.

            OK, here goes.

            I’d prefer a text or maybe I could tweet a tweet, but that could be a problem.

            I know you’re all thumbs.

            I remember you wrestling with the VCR clock, just buttons, no tick-tock, ‘goddamn thing’s useless as a rock.’

            And I know your phone is not mine, your phone was always hanging on the wall, Noni’s so small, ‘it’s only smart if I can use it to call.’

            So, I write a letter.

            School first, your rule, not mine, that’s fine.

            Everything’s good, senior year breezy, so easy, with half days and straight A’s.

            Old enough to drive now, already like old news now, I know driving to you was that sacred cow, you hated to give it up, it was tough.

            So I’m my own school bus driver, picking up fares, I don’t care, I can fit four, or more in the back, put’em on the roof rack, don’t care.

            But I know what you mean.

            Drive yourself, take your own car, come-and-go, I know now, I know.

            Let me tell you, Pa, my Honda’s been good to me, but I wish I had your Jeep.

            Lately I’m counting the days, counting the ways, counting two times.

            First time I count are the days to ‘play ball,’ on the dirt and grass, outdoors, off the gym floors.

            Second time counting is to the end of my time here at this place, MY school.

            The building’s a pit, good people mixed with those who don’t give a shit, but I like it. I usually say otherwise but just between us guys I have liked it.

            I’m leaving knowing all the people here. If I don’t know them, they know me, popular as can be. You and me …. it’s a curse, right?

            Can’t wait to get where I’m going next, moving on, but not too far from mom.

            Hey, I think of you every time I pass the bar at work, from parking lot to kitchen.

            I look good in an apron, getting better with a knife, I’ve got a good life.

            Work is good for the money, buys me food and gas.

            They should pay me more to work with the assistant chef ass, but karma will get him, dim-witted Jim with the bad hair and, ah, who cares. The food’s good.

            If you look you can see I’m a freakin’ beast, a freakin’ tree, bigger than Dan and Andy, bigger than Sam, bigger than Colin, catching up to Uncle Bob, the whole ugly mob.

            A beast, but Noni can still put me in my place, which is usually at her table for a taste, of whatever she’s making or baking. Did I mention I love to eat?

            Time for my nap, and don’t laugh.

            Noni says I got that from you, and sometimes you’d take two a day, which sounds like the thing to do if you have the time, maybe next time.

            I’ll be sure to write again, now that I know that I can.

            This letter thing, I’d say, is OK.

            But I’d still rather send a text.

 

Love you,

Jack (they call me JR now)        

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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