Rote

Thirty-eight today,
And the days are kind.
But I feel them- blind
Words accumulating-
Which need saying?

You write from a different state,
And my love still smolders,
But no longer can these shoulders
Carry the heavy weight:
Admission to your spinning fête.

A carnival empire
Bleeding heirs
Begging to be spared
From a survival-bent liar:
Unwitting victim and victimizer.

You stand as your own narrator
Proclaiming all you’ve accomplished
I’m a forced-accomplice
And sometimes-spectator,
But what do you say to your Creator?

Do you say to the Lord
”Look at all I’ve done in Your name?”
We both know that refrain
Strikes the wrong chord,
And costs more than you can afford.

So why do you fill these days
Practicing it in rote?
A demanding gloat
Or an empty craze:
An entry-fee of praise.

I’m worried sick about you.
You’re old, and you’re ill,
And you’re unchanged still.
With all time put us both through,
You will not be subdued-

Thirty-eight years askew,
But I do care, and I will,
Because I love you still.

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