Writing our lives onto the pages of our children. |
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Editing Our SonsWe want to write your lifeIt’s not enough to kick-start the genetics We need to write on that blank page Our lives, edited to suit Don’t let us do it Write your lines, your words There’s too much faded prose showing through our pages It never suits the author Jealousy, some regret, not much We see your paper blank . . . it’s not Hoping for a re-write, good reviews, of all those words we spelled wrong Failed paragraphs, lots of chapters Leave them there, scribbling your own Takes lots of words to write a life, punctuating yours as well or badly as ours, nothing there to learn But leave your son’s pages blank The self we couldn’t sculpt we’d carve in you Take away the knife, remembering where it’s put away, to hide it from your son and his And break the pen |
 This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |
