I guess it's war between us from now on;
it's no use to pretend it's otherwise--
for every father fights with every son,
viciously, all their lives, till someone dies.
Right now the terms of battle follow thus:
"Clean up your room! Put dishes in the sink!
Don't you talk back to me! No time to fuss--
now brush your teeth! To bed, you little fink!"
They wear me down, these nightly screams and tears,
that face darkened like rainclouds fit to burst,
these silent, hate-filled glares, contempt-full jeers--
I wonder which of us will weaken first?
No matter--I'm the one who writes this poem,
but he's the one who picks the nursing home.
No comments:
Post a Comment