I let my grey hair over-grow,
wear out dead man donated clothes,
I occasionally tap paths with my worn-down stick,
missing the beat of my off-time limp.
I’ve been re-set by a strangle, unseen,
I am less of a man, a reduction in mien,
offended by nature not playing it straight?
I eye the barrel of pain’s aimed complaints.
‘Life’s unfair,’ she spat out the words,
a line which I’ll refuse to rehearse.
But forty years later my recall has grown
of my mother’s bile rising, I swallow my own..
Life is fair, it is in agreement,
until we are held up by our parents,
then their bias, that family axiom:
We make our own lives by not repeating them.
I let my grey hairs over-grow,
wearing out dead man donated clothes.