His degrees on the wall behind him
Backup for the coming bereavement
“You have cancer,” he said
“Oh Really. What type?”
As if the specifics of my death mattered
This tumour was my birthright
My inheritance made flesh
It had been growing inside me since birth
Feeding on the poisonous fume
Of a disintegrating family
Mother bound to domesticity
Father bound to a job he despised
All to raise us boys
Clear in their conscience
They had done the right thing
Only the ‘right’ thing is decided by others
They had no knowledge of this
As they fussed and fought
And battled to stay together
For the children’s sake of course
Internalising so much guilt
It might have driven them mad
Were it not for the fact that
Old age made them weary
Tired of keeping up appearances
Mowing lawns and trimming trees
Tired even of outliving their children.
© shaun patrick green 2011
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