It's your fault this happened.
You failed as a teacher when I wanted a father.
You wanted loyalty,
honesty and respect.
I wanted your old hat because it smelled like you.
You let your records sing you to sleep, and I smoked to kill time.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
I was waking up early to tea
and an unfinished essay.
You were always rushing to work and forgetting to say good-bye.
I signed for your packages
when you were in Washington.
You liked to keep my grades in a folder
in your home office.

The guidance counselors told me I was crazy.
Your secretary said you were busy,
but I called, John, I called,
if only to imagine your office phone ringing
and your eyes, squinting
to read the caller ID,
because you wouldn't wear the glasses they gave you.

I don't imagine your facial expressions
and you don't respond to my emails. I threw the book out
but I kept your poem.
You could be catching a train
or a bus
or a ferry
but it's all the same.
I'm never in a rush. You're never the voice on the other line,
but I still hear
your laughter
because I told you something
that reminded you of yourself, years before,
outside of a bar in Boston
inside a flat in Wien
stuck in an old elevator in midtown
when you were only wondering whether you would be someone.