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You're twenty-two, no more than a child;
I've just arrived, your firstborn, your son;
There's a world of conflict all around us;
One day soon we'll fear each other;
But it doesn't make much sense to us.
You work all day and sleep all night;
We don't play much, don't talk at all;
Money makes your world go around;
Without it we don't eat or live;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You speak in anger, but call it love;
I don't trust you, I don't like you;
To me you're great and terrible;
A dire god of fear and pain;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
You have dreams and hopes and plans;
I'm your only son, we will have such fun;
We'll go camping, and life will be awesome;
Somehow that means you're a good dad;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You won't let me play with other kids;
I should be like your friends, more adult;
But their lives are boring, flat, inert;
I hate you quietly, I don't speak or smile;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
You laugh at me, and have your fun;
I must be strange or weird in your eyes;
Today by chance I dressed in black;
You say I look like some punk kid;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You shout at me, in indignation;
I've always told you school is fine;
My report card says otherwise;
I lied to get you off my back;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
You must have control, power, strength;
When words don't come so easily to me;
In frustration I raise my voice;
You send me to my room without dinner;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
Your wife has left you, but I remain;
There's no love between us, we're not family;
I have no respect for you, little feeling;
Another year with you is bearable;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
Your son has left you, you're all alone;
You asked me to choose, I chose to go;
Without a family, you cling to your sanity;
You find your solace in work and friends;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You are overwhelmed by my anger;
It gives me boundless strength and power;
In me you feel a heart as cold as Death;
You see your work of pain and fear;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
You are careful, cautious, circumspect;
For years we haven't spoken much;
Perhaps you think I have forgotten;
Or maybe you just don't know how to cope;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You are relieved by my approach;
At last we can talk in level tones, civilly;
Certain topics are avoided, naturally;
I've learned from your mistakes;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
Your son is off to college, far away;
School and neighborhood are both bad;
From others I learn more of fear and anger;
You encourage me unceasingly;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You almost died last night, alone;
A friend called me to let me know;
On the freeway you had flipped the car;
I wasn't happy like you thought I'd be;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
You're getting married a second time;
The objections are many, it seems;
And few are genuinely happy for you;
You're both so hopeful that I will approve;
But it doesn't make much sense to me.
You have been forgiven father, teacher, man;
Though the pain you caused unwittingly;
Will in truth be with me forever and a day;
I have learned of love, and of exoneration;
But it doesn't make much sense to you.
We are so different, and so much the same;
We wage a war that has no winners;
Ask questions that have no answers;
When we raise a flag of parley we are equals;
But it doesn't make much sense to us.
Joel
February 1999
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