METTLE
The rebel Viking hairs that copper-threaded
my Semitic iron spade were first to fade
silver as fuck tomorrow
ceded way to fretting
over pension and investments.
Berserk
no more in middle age, nihilistic
abnegation whelmed by surging
waves
of care for kin and colleagues'
welfare,
I laid aside my pen and page,
muted
rage and issued antiseptic
grievance.
And grieve I did, my father, for
you, whose
rogue and sober ways have forged
me
even as your blood and the auburn
hairs
of the grizzled beard you daily shaved
bequeathed
to me the tempered mettle of my
steel—
and debility in speaking what I
feel.