To a Son

I think my job is really done,
and yet, what was the sense
in raising you, my bearded son?
So that you beat it hence?

The anguish, pain and rocky nights!
And now — a vacant nest?
I close the door, switch off the lights
and think: is 'now' the best?

Is now when life begins forsooth?
What I’ve been waiting for?
Where lies the lie and sits the truth?
Is mothering no more?

What was the point of all that work —
the grinding wear and tear?
So that in turn you too uncork
your bottle of despair?

So you produce another clutch
of confident mistakes?
As I just watch but dare not touch
no matter what the stakes?

And yet, I could be less intense:
more chill, more cool, more mild.
The prodigal returns — from whence?
Who cares?!  Behold my child!

“How has it been?” “You know — the same.
I now get what you meant
by trying to adjust my aim,
my target and intent.”

“Who knows if I was right before.
I’m glad you’re back for now.
You got beat up? You're feelin' sore?
You'll manage anyhow.”

“You’re mom, and that remains in force —
whatever fluff I've said.
Life’s just a ‘maybe’ — not ‘of course!’
We spin it thread by thread.”

“So nice to see and feel your doubt,
my fawn; I am your doe.
And now let’s whisper; let’s not shout.”
“I know, my mom, I know."