We waltz around, unspeaking,
the metronome our tune
our eyes just barely meeting
as our silent heartaches fume.
It is sad.
It often seems we are unchanged
though Time insists it cannot be
But what is he to those deranged
and grief-stuck such as we?
This clumsy box-step of our life,
the woeful tread of two estranged worlds,
of a bitter son and bitter wife
seems endless in its wait for words.
It is pain,
this half-lived life.
I am still there, my mother
as we dance this foolish dance,
and but for you there is no other
who can seize this parent's chance.
It is far too late for me;
I learned the dance too well
But I am not your only child.