Genetics

     My son has stretched his legs to make a man,

      He looks at me and sees an also-ran.  

      I gave him human life and mortal pain,

      Now he gives it back to me again.

  

      I taught him right from wrong, I thought I should,

      How do I know myself, or bad from good?

      I stained his morals with my mortal sin,

      And never told him why the doubts begin.

      He bears the baggage of my tainted past

      on narrow shoulders, that must a lifetime last

      of treading, wary of my quicksand stride,

      Avoiding pitfall of my buried pride.

         

       This Dorian mirror of my futile life,

      Genetic vengeance of a fretting wife.

      Accusing stare ingrained in teenage face

      Raw reminder of a man’s disgrace.

        (The sins of the fathers?)