I swear about my father

While lounging, sporting his pants.

Pausing for a moment, I realize that in this

Worn, tattered,

Aged

Pair of pants,

I am him

A disgruntled old man,

Frustrated

A born again defeatist.

I know that he is, in turn,

His own disliked father

Who festers, rots in his armchair at the home,

Snaps at nurses who sneak longing glances at the ticking clocks between waiting

On ungrateful, festering patients,

Like my grandfather.

I wonder how soon my own father would don those long navy socks, which

Hang

Off old, pale, wiry shins,

A body which is no longer useful.

This reflection of his father would make him cringe, so he blocks it out

But I am beginning to see,

Instead of the inspirational, witty, turbulent role model,

The sagging pouches of skin above the lips.

Angry wrinkles that form not only when he frowns

Are sealing his destiny of clumsy, shiny black shoes

Hunching, plaid shirts that barely frame bony shoulders

And wiry, unruly, escaping hairs.

Perhaps I can

Escape

This fate

But only if I start smiling again

Soon