poem

 Descendants

My son is on to me

Laughs when I’m trying to be serious

Stone faces me when I’m legit funny

I only want the best for him

But he thinks I’m plotting his demise

Tell you what, do it your way

I say, and he doesn’t even do that

He finds some other way

To get where he thinks he’s going

A route I’m sure he’ll someday

Secretly rue

We’ve all been there
But never let anyone know!

Repeat your lines like a mantra

Show them all your receipts

Fake it until you feel it

You’ll begin to believe it yourself

When asked to defend your own life

The best you can do is point 

To one of your descendants— the brilliant,

Kind-hearted lad who won't arrive

For another 214 years.

Be patient 

You just have to wait for him.

No, I don’t have an answer,

Is the best I can say when 

He draws his own blanks

To the big questions he finally

Gets around to asking.

Try to imagine it gets better, I say.

When I see the horror 

Stitched to his face 

I have a sudden desire to laugh

But I’m his dad now

And all I can do is hold him tight

And let him sort of angry cry 

Which is sometimes the best compromise

Between telling him the truth

And filling his heads with lies

3/8/26