An Email To My Son Poem by James Walter Orr

My son sent me an email, and he said,
“I want to hear no more of politics”.
“It’s not for that the email was contrived.
It’s not that purpose I will use it for.”
He then went on to tell me that the use,
For which he thought the program was more apt,
Was to send out things meant to raise the joy
One gleans from finding photos in the mail,
Just like the one he said I’d find below.

I scrolled down on the email I had read,
And as one might surmise, I found a girl,
Captured by some one with perceptive eyes,
Aided by a high class camera’s lens,
While boosted by the subject’s willingness,
To raise her sweater up above her breasts,
So as to show the way that nature can
Convince the hardest heart and strictest mind,
Perfection can be shaped by nature’s hand.

He then went on to ask me what had passed;
His calls to me had been to no avail.
Worry for me had risen in his mind;
So many calls to me, yet unreturned.
I thought to quell his curiosity,
And bring him up to date on what transpired.
I told him, “Son, we’ve been in turmoil here.
The girl whom you have shown, displayed below,
Enjoyed the things I whispered in her ear.

She begged me for a date, and I succumbed,
But jealousy then reared its ugly head.
Your mother’s heart was filled with such a rage,
She ran off with a man whom played the cards.
We left the house without a crumb of food.
This soon had caused the rest, whom lived with us,
To launch a search to find our where-a-bouts.
I had not stopped to think of food for them,
For my own food had walked beside me then.

“However, Son, the crises soon had passed.
Samantha (that’s her name) , had cried for rest.
I thought it best to turn again toward home,
And calm the troubled waters that had rushed
To fill the void where I had held my sway.”
“Your mother has returned into the fold.
Too many busted flushes had occurred,
To let the gambler’s gilded image stay,
Untarnished, when the shield of night was gone.”

Thus, one man’s family passed another day.
Another sunset slammed another door,
Upon another ordinary week
Of sad monotony and changeless time.
“I would, however, ask of you a boon:
It’s little it will cost in time or sweat;
It scarcely needs to call you from your way.
If you should see Samantha once again,
Please tell her I will now accept her calls.”

Your father