At forty I found my Father.
At forty I found my Father had
for years been looking for a me
he could only hope was more
than he could see.
I had given him only traces,
hints of my existance
because, it seemed to me,
he wanted a different me
than I was, so of course,
I gave him less, by half, three quarters.

He wanted a drinking buddy,
I gave him a tea totaler.
He wanted a radical,
I gave him a conservative.
He wanted a well hung stud
to go his victories one better,
I gave him stubborn virginity.

Then, at forty, I found
he wanted merely me,
nothing more or less.
So, now, my Father has found me,
and I have found my father,
and in doing so,
I am finding me.

Mother is next.