The oldest grandkid functions like a jerk:
insensitive to others and unkind.
His uncle can be called a piece of work –
an asshole when he’s in that frame of mind.
The mother of the poet acted mean
when she was young: abrupt and even cold.
The brother used a bullying routine,
exceeding teasing, if the truth be told.

As often as I’ve castigated some
(aloud at times, but mostly in my head),
no sooner do they sicken or become
beset by bad, then my disdain instead
converts to care, attention, and concern.
It happens every time. You’d think I’d learn.

This entry was posted in Family, Love, Personality, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Inconstancy

  1. William says:

    I can feel the ‘family system’ in your words.

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