I hate my sons. They have lives which aren’t mine,
they have friends who I disapprove of
they have interests which aren’t mine they avoid me
and they’re happiest when I’m not there.
They got married and name their sons after me. Thinking
I’d like that ‘honour’. They bought houses
without asking my advice. They got middle-aged
looking like wolves with slathering jaws
when they grovel at my house. They’re calculating
just how long I’m going to live.
And I laugh as I torture their expectations.
My hatred isn’t concealed. I know what they want
and I know how to tease. I nearly give them what
they want. They don’t know whether to grovel or protest.
They don’t know what I want. I want men.
They want money. They aren’t going to get money
until I’m dead and I wont have to look at them
gorging in the trough.
But the last laugh is on them. They get the money and die.