I am a son of many fathers.
Literary, Musical, Metaphorical and Step
And of course, the bio-illogical actual. The face I can see.
The man I am and never will be.
Old disagreements of opinion seem trivial beside our consistencies.
Our English features, our privateness.
He understands me, pretends he doesn't.
I don't call for occasions anymore; he takes the hint.
Easy neglect and small regrets.
It doesn't seem to matter in the wake of our history. Approaching his senior stage now, I wonder how best to reconnect, or if it's even possible. Or required. Affection in deference to convention seems beneath us both. Stubborn bastards need walls up.
Maybe next year, pops.