Old Men Raising Old Men.

In my family, old men raise old men;
Chippy Irish sprouts who would hug a
Mountain lion before their own dad,
And punch a flower just for wilting
In their direction.

Once my father tried,
And I bit his toes with my heel;
I was relieved to be thrown away.

But that's how it is for boys born
On a leap year, and those who come
Home to their mom coddling a knife
Where you once buried your face.

Here's hoping the night makes you mad,
and the guilt doesn't haunt you for long;
Your first mask will be cruelty.

The moonshine in the fridge will help
Kill and peel the skin; you need to
Hide the bruises, and learn to execute
A proper jab, nothing more.

Maybe you'll cry your first tear while
Your son is by your side for the last time;
Maybe he will raise a boy.