She is young enough
To be my daughter.
Oh, what a twisted concept,
Oedipus brings us,
An old man
Struggling with
Teenage urges,
She eight years junior
Of my flesh and blood
Off-spring,
Retaining much of
The charge,
My real daughter has not,
For all that has transpired
In her life,
The essence of who she is
Clings to her,
If not quite Ponce de Leon’s
Dream made real,
An abbreviated version,
even if she sometimes
Goes on about her
Her middle age.
She could have been
My daughter
Though I dare not think
Of her that way,
Clinging to the illusion
Old men get when
We think we have
Missed out on
Something in life,
And rob the cradle
To make up for it,
Doing the impossible
Going back in time.
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