My Son is an Old Man
Poem
Published in
Jun 14, 2024
My son is an old man. He toiled
the years I did not know him in
a sawmill, two fingers lost. His
beard is grey, his head dotted
with liver spots, he has no teeth.
He wept when I asked about my
grandsons. Gone, said the old man. How? Burst appendix. And? Slipped on ice. Yes? And Beaten. I knew these were lies, so I wiped away his tears, though I felt I had no right. He did not know me for forty-five years, time I spent with a stone in my shoe. My son is an old man. I met him on Tuesday.
