Please don’t overthink this, Dad,
but this morning when you walked into my room,
murmured, “It’s time to wake up, Mr. President”
and checked my vents for warm air,
I painted a portrait of you in the low light.

Do you think
they’ll let me put up posters in the oval office?
Taft was too big,
they put a bathtub in there just for him.
I really don’t need all that space,
I think my body could fit in his sixfold,
my skin hugs my tight, just like yours did.
I don’t need all that space,
just a space
for Zappa, for Reed, for that picture of you I made.
You’ll sit up there with them, a gen-u-ine Charles IV
I’m sure they can find a corner for you for my sake.

During interviews, I’ll dress up nice
for it was you who taught me
business-casual from casual-casual;
the difference between me and them;
“Why would anyone else be there instead of you?”
“Your father loves you more than all of their love combined.”
“You have my last name, no one can compare. You’re a F-rrr-eudenberg.”

No one can compare to the president in white.
Every day is my wedding day, with you ordained to marry
shaking up there, shaking and talking. 
Your aunt made you a suit,
college graduation,
somewhere tinged in sepia, there’s you, mouth agape,
one on one interview with family and your hair all fixed
a little too business-formal,
but you’re there. White suit, talking.
Talking and trembling and talking.

Don’t overthink this.
Dad.
But when i see that picture of you, I see myself.
And on the walls in the white house, we look so similar
that tour guides will point out the brushwork around our almond eyes
and canadian tourists will snap a picture
of us, side by side on the wall panels
above us, a vent to pink our cheeks, flutter the collars on our white suits
whispering good mornings to us every day
for eternity --