Me, Myself And I And I And I.

I introduced the young twenty something to myself at seventeen

and for good measure, them both to me at thirty.

At forty-four I sat back and watched them try to make

small talk, idle chit chat, but not the hint of interrogation

that should be imagined when stuck in a room with your future at sixty,

pompous, arrogant, full of fear and trepidation,

and your ten year old self, who acts pretty much the same.

 

The glaring glances and accusing stares from the seventeen year old

to my older, yet younger selves, was a mix of, “How did you get so cool?”

and, “How did you get so worn down so quickly?”

They would all look at me at the same time, perhaps over my

shoulders to make sure that I had nobody beyond me yet,

and whisper with a tone of vengeful desperation, “What did you do to us?”

 

To my seventeen year old self, I would merely explain that he was an idiot.

A child who didn’t know one end of life from the other

and seriously, a caravan to live in, you pompous, stupid fool!

To my thirty year old being,

I would simply explain that life

took a huge wrong turn after the idiotic boy

became quite a frustrating cool dude

who just didn’t realise he was cool

till he gets to the point where middle age came calling

and the lack of forethought for the future once more

wringed its hands.

To the twenty one year old, sat in the pub in Hamilton,

Opposite his grandfather’s childhood home,

New York, Philadelphia and watching chess

with interest on Dupont Circle,

playing cards in Pittsburgh, professing love in a bar on 77th Street,

listening to a barmaid tell him he didn’t love that girl

and who would sit one balmy evening surrounded by

a new beaten generation on a beach at high tide

and the flickering candles of expectation

being drowned in sorrow and wispy lies of happiness

and I would shake that little bastard till

he dropped upon his knees and apologised to the thirty year old me

for giving him too high a barrier to try and see over.

 

To the thirty year old looking me in the I,

I would smile, as only one can when dealing with a hopeless lost case,

With a touch of compassion but with the glint in that same I

and would say, chin up lad, you haven’t experienced

anything yet pal, there’s still homelessness to come, smile

for you are not down that bitter road yet.

After that though you will get back to Canada

and you will see more of the world than you thought possible.

To the seventeen year old, wondering where he might actually

find a girl to like him, write more poetry you idiot,

don’t leave it to me twenty seven years from now

to still be learning how to do this, I would then cuff him round the head,

it is after all, not illegal to abuse myself.

 

The sixty year old

nestled out of sight but so close I can hear him breathe,

I ignore, as he I hope, ignores the eighty year old,

digesting every last moment of life, fighting for oxygen

and fighting with himself and the memories

being revisited in the eyes of the seventeen year old

staring back at him.  I see them all and I am in the middle alone,

understanding, knowing,

we are all our father’s son.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015