Poem of the Week #167

What Goes Around

At five,
the argument
was with my mother.

I insisted that drum
begins with j. She
patiently claimed

otherwise and I
cried, but could not
prove her wrong.

At fifteen,
the argument
was with my father.

He said, rock n’ roll
is abstract. I said,
structured. I knew

I was right. I went
blue in the face
countering his theory.

At fifty,
there is no argument,
only a longing to go back

and tell that child,
that teen, to calm itself
and consider the parent.

Now, I get to argue
with my son. He says,
you don’t like anything.

He is wrong. I am wrong.
Or, rather, we are both right.
I leave it at that.

Lisa Vihos