His Fiftieth

The little girl he’d raised

Was grown and gone now.

Having done his best,

She still never turned out

As he’d expected she would.

It was downright disappointing

After all his sacrifices for her.

Learning now of her choices

Which could only be surmised

As making her own mistakes.

He never fathered a child,

But with fifty approaching

Considered having a son,

And how delightful it would be,

Yet knowing it was impossible.

No test were necessary

To confirm his impotence.

And his more mature partners

Never concerned themselves

Or even brought up children.

The months grew closer

To his half a century celebration,

While the longing grew stronger

And regret and disappointment

Haunted his daily thoughts.

His adopted daughter decided

To cut him off on the grounds

That he made her what he hated,

And voice his disgust at her,

And will never accept the blame.

Once they had a discussion

After the adoption was final,

When she realized his motives

Was to appear to be the hero 

Who saved her from destruction.

The week of his fiftieth birthday

He was feeling rather anxious,

And thought of nothing else

Than all he wanted to impart

To the son he never had.

On the night before his big day

He wasn’t feeling celebratory,

And brought home enough rum

To pass the day hibernating

Alone in a drunken stupor.

Figuring what better way

To slither into another year,

The same way he always had

Through successive failures

Haunted by only one.

The son he could never have

Superseded all desires.

Fearing mostly above all else,

How he had no one to carry on

His name, or genes, or traits.

Sadness and sorrows swim

In high blood alcohol levels.

Harassing him to tears that day,

Which could’ve been a celebration

Of gratitude for fifty healthy years.
Ria 2016