My son’s a cudgel I’ll be bludgeoned with
my one soft spot, a tender spot to split
a line whose origin they’ll find in me.
Forgetting all the times I passed them by
as they consoled a screaming, bawling child,
absurd opinions aired in private chat,
I want to tell them where to shove their words
it’s not like baby knows all he has heard
how I’m the fallen man, my pride the fruit.
Yet striking back, at once, I am bereft
and all my words have mutinied and fled
their origin, the father, son in him.