To My Son

When you know the mixture of adoration

and condescension I feel for you,

you’ll be a father,

Knowing the pleasure of being greater

than what is better,

nurturing becoming,

aloof, loving,

it simply can’t all be cozy,

But it’s going to be great,

seeing the little shit copy you,

in part, at least, if you get it right, 

the good part,

letting go of the bad,

better— your very much better self—

a stranger ideally conveyed.