Sonnet 47: Apology

By Aurin Squire

I think about times when Dad was mean,
Only child syndrome of first-and-last served
Two men conflicted when I was a teen
A better son, he needed and deserved

Our cold car drives and the bone-deep gashes
of the silence we shared staring through windshields.
Blunt peculiar conversations lashes
our tongues into mute plastic shields.

Protect yourself from the alien son
who hates girls and brings over no school friends,
we're not going to bond on victories won,
I'm sorry it's too late to make amends.

Frequently wept when I thought about us,
Never much your son, not much to trust.