Those overtime nights in the ice factory, eyeing gauges, greasing gears: that's one thing. And the hours of clarinet lessons. <br />All that rain that blathered on the patio, leaves <br />lifting and twisting, a demented semaphore. I hired myself <br />to crack that code, kept busy not conceiving you. I peopled <br />the past, got safely sad about that. I hammered together <br />a hut in the back of my brain to crawl inside and rest <br />from the labor of making it. My almost-daughter, my nearly-was son, <br />I was frugal, I made you wait till you grew <br />into the idea of waiting. See? These words hurt no one.<br /><br />Chris Forhan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-almost-daughter-my-nearly-was-son/
