Poem: Father. Son. And The Holy Roast

A poem about when you think back on being the age your child is...

My son is now the age I was
when I met Richard. I think about that
now and then — the way he and his
friends all act. It really is so different.

But also not that different when
we really are so useless then, not
little kids at all but still so much
growing up to do. And mentally,

and spiritually it lags behind what
happens physically. I think about this
quite a lot and wonder if Richard had
had a son, and how he’d work as a dad.

A lot less weird than his own, but
maybe no more present. Times are
weird to contemplate, and all those
mistakes, and all you forever resent.