This work by William D. Cattey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Points on a LineMy father's father was an alcoholicWho threw away the grocery money Buying a round for his buds at the bar. He was dead before I was born. My father hated him And made no secret of that fact. My father kept his vow Never to sink to the levels of irresponsibility Inhabited by his father. His obsessive work habits Dragged our family from "Dirt Poor" to "Upper middle class. Amazing. And yet, I think he was never happy. A tool maker, yet a better engineer Than those whos prototypes he made real. He never knew That his insights were unique And far ahead of most others. When you disagreed you were Stupid. Or worse, The Enemy. Me, I am chronically depressed But in recovery. I have a flair for being right, But am not often enough Effective in saving others From their dumb ideas. Dad could arise at six And turn paper into tool Working 80 hour weeks. I can't. Sometimes I have trouble Getting out of bed Just to pack a bag for vacation. And yet, I think my mind is like That of my father and his father before him. Points on a line. |
| 27 June 2009 (unfinished) | |
| by Bill Cattey | |
| Notes on this poem. |
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This work by William D. Cattey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. |