Turnabout is fair play

Turnabout
aaaaTo a Dad Leaving Home

I have left you many times.
The first, perhaps,
was when I began to root
for a different basketball team,
or argued that Dominique Wilkins
was better at the dunk
than Michael Jordan.
Or was it when I listened
to damned noisy music
and started to slam doors,
muttering that Vedder
didn’t scream as much as Callas.
The next was on my birthday,
when I insisted
on a mean mountain bike
and lessons without training wheels.

But it was in college
that distance became real.
I didn’t have to be back
at my apartment by midnight,
or two at the latest.
I learned that cigarettes are good
with beer. I fell in love—
it wasn’t with you anymore.

You, on the other hand,
have always been home. Waiting—
first, for my dreams to come true,
and then yours. Now

I want to cling and cling—
bow to His Airness, dish the dirt on Grunge,
lock every door against your own quest—
but I remember you said
that to learn to ride a bicycle
takes two people:
One to pedal like crazy
and the other, to let go.

*****

Something I wrote recently, in an attempt to sound more generous than I actually am.