By this age
when I’ve answered the questions
my life in its earlier stage;
Who could ever love me?
What kind of house would we maintain?
I put away my rage;
Hatred for things unconquerable
Hostage to anything that didn’t come willingly
I am a better man than my father
who by this age
had left lives lying in the lurch
lying in a crib crying
lying in a foreign country, or two
lying just to find work.
I too’ve committed my sins
and come to think of it, accomplished nothing
so rescind. Better than my father?
I am far worse.