A father's tale

I made this child but he's not mine

His breeding a consequence of wine

I do my best to make amends

For which each month a check I send

I've taken him to zoos and parks

In hopes of father-son themed larks

But when I look into his eyes

I see a woman I despise

Although the boy resents me deeply

I give my all to treat him sweetly

We do what we can and continue to err

To create the fathers we never were

What Would Bowie Do?

In my days of turmoil,
when I feel confused and blue
I ask myself a question:
"What would Bowie do?"

How would the Starman handle
this situation quite mundane?
Will I get an answer
from the old Aladdin Sane?

I was playing Ziggy
for the millionth time,
when the sky had turned
a shade of rosé wine.

In his shiny tin can
crashing from the stars,
He landed in my kitchen
all the way from Mars.

Pinching myself silly,
distrusting what I see:
Thin White Duke in person
came down to speak to me!

Brushing off the star dust,
He stepped out of his ship.
Grabbed me by the collar
with a snow white grip.

"Here is the answer,
I'm tired of your crap:
wear red disco pants,
and shut your bloody trap."

How does it change

I've forgotten the moment when I chose
When it was moulded into the shape it currently holds

What does it take? A car, a clot, a lump, a knife:
This is how we lose our shapes, how they cease to be

How many choices remain to change it
The way it looks, the way it feels
Before it sets
Immalleable

Another shape in an arrangement no one chose