When you were 12 years old, your father quit
his job, his engineering work, his life
in many ways. He took to home, to sit
and view a hundred channels with his wife.
He never more felt vigorous or well
enough to venture up or even out.
As if he were imprisoned in a spell
of morbid wealth, he gathered stuff and doubt
around his rounding shoulders, failing back,
and figured that he wouldn’t linger long.
“I think I’m dying soon. I can’t attack
a strategy. I’m neither young nor strong.”

You’re weary. You remind me of your pop.
I beg you to resist the urge to stop.