Dear Son Poem by John Schwarz

Dear Son,
I want to communicate with you
I think about you a lot
I usually think that a father doesn't count for much
That my own father was a diverting old rascal
Who tramped around in my mind like Frankenstein,
And yet I am constantly meeting
Young men in search of a father.
Who?
Me?
he-he
I remember one night coming home late
And you got out of your crib
In your Doctor Dentons to greet me.
You seemed delighted to see me.
My friend Wes thougt you were an angel from Rubens-
Rubicund, perfectly formed, blond ringleted.
When did you begin to think
That I thought you weren't beautiful?
Kid, I know you're beautiful.
When you were sixteen
I used to see you loping down the street
And wonder: Who is that rare spirit
Who doesn't know that he is a rare spirit?
Then I gave you a few driving lessons
And you were afraid you wouldn't get it.
Later on you got it and taught me how to drive-
The hell out of things
On the beach at Baja
In the dark
In the wind
Trying to shake your brother of the hood of the car
Trying to murder him.
You gave me my first joint
And when I got high you gave me
A grape, played Eric Clapton
And showed me M.C. Escher drawings.
S-, you taught me a lot.
The first time you turned on
I went into the garden
In West L.A. sunlight
And cried.
Then you became a junky
And we fought all the time,
Every time you split
Or we kicked you out
I had to clean up
Your girlfriend's Tampons.
We took a picture of that once-
Of your room.
That was your Kienholz period.
By the way-
I still have your snakes and matchbook drawing.
You've got talent.
Everything you do has flair.
You're my boy, baby!