post card from LA

the son
calls from La La land,
on the left coast.

we talk movies.
we talk scripts and writing.

we talk
about relationships.
ghosts.

it's a good talk.
he's putting gas in his car.

i'm cutting a sandwich
in half in the kitchen,
phone cradled under my chin.

we talk about
girlfriends.
death, love, sin.

we laugh too. don't get me
wrong.
it's rarely a dark talk with him.

he has a life.
i'm glad for that. a real life
without me
or his mother pulling strings,
feeding him.

he's on his own, but still
not far from being under my wing.

it's a good talk.