for Michael Van Walleghen
September. My Mom gave back the book,
said she found the poems very sad. But she liked
the one about the snowmen. I set it facedown
on my dresser and noticed for the first time
his casual stance, right hand
resting on the fender of an old Chevrolet, the left
knuckle-deep in his pocket. His mustache
forms a right angle at the corner of the mouth.
No glasses. His hair is dark and long,
a lone curl falls in the center of his forehead.
Without his name no the cover, I never
would have recognized him. He who
taught me to suppress the “I” and pay
attention to where I break my line. How can I
thank him, I who still can’t get it right?