Ten days after I was, you were born.
Heading out past sixty, I’m still hanging on
But you baled out at thirty, telling the world
‘Dying is an art. I do it exceptionally well.’
Now you’re a young poet of deserved fame, I
An ageing one of modest reputation.
From where I sit, cool Daddy looks at you.
He sees the pain, and the brat – and the brat in pain.
Living is an art. He does it as well as he can.