Was I a good son?
Yes, I was a good son.
But I know,
in their later years,
I did not see my parents very often.
I did telephone however.
Every month I telephoned.
But they’d ask me
what I was doing with my life.
If they didn’t ask that,
I would have called more often.
My mother spoke to me
as if I was still the twelve-year-old
she saw off to school.
My father never did get over the fact
that I turned down the good job
he got for me in the railways.
So I said mostly nothing.
I listened.
A good listener must surely
be a good son.
An even better parent
but that’s for another poem.
Sometimes,
a good son is a tongue-biter,
an automaton
that’s programmed
to verbally nod.
He returns home for the weddings.
And he’s there at the funerals.
There’s tears.
There’s arguments.
But a good son puts in an appearance
even when nothing good can come of it.
