"Party in the USA." -Abe

You know what I'm really starting to like? When people say, "Write about me." You're all such nice muses. It makes my job so easy. So here's for Connor White, because he asked me to, and because I missed our goldfish/hummus lunch date.

For Connor

I imagine that when you're older you'll be the sort of man who sits in the front seat of taxi cabs.

I know what you're made of.

You know what you're made of.

It's no secret.

You count things, don't you?

One, two, three, four, five, five, seven, nine, eleven,

you aren't a secret.

You are such a secret.

I know what you keep in those pockets of yours --

ID, a few dollars, some sarcasm (used as a defense mechanism), a little bit of paint.

You've gotten this far, love, don't look back, love,

one, two, five, skip, skip, skip.

You like control. You're honest, and it's beautiful.

You know when you've been beaten, you realist, you,

but you know how to win, you perfectionist, you,

and you know it isn't over 'til it's over, 
you competitor, you, you and your third period wit.

You're outwardly patient.
Here is something that I love about you:
You understand that you control your own universe.
You know about your own fate.
You make your own joy.

You'll say goodnight never, goodbye never,

stop counting never.

You know what you want, go get it,

I understand you.

Don't live for anyone else, okay? You know what you want.

Go get it. This is for you.

Count your own fingers and keep your hands in front of you and remember who loves you.

You deserve all good things: love and warm blankets and good snacks and a long life,

those are things you deserve.

Sleep well (when you sleep).


Someday I'll stop writing so much in the second person around here, but not yet.
All my love,
Addy