My son finds occupation <br />in almost nothing, in everything: <br />my soapy penitential toothpaste, <br />his mother's loosened hair <br />orts, containers, useless things; <br />watches as I pee <br />as at Victoria Falls, <br />once pushed his head between my knees <br />to risk some sort of baptism. <br /> <br />Before his birth I thought <br />I had room for no more love: <br />now when he (say) hurts himself <br />love, consideration, care <br />(copies from the originals) <br />as if burst inside me. <br /> <br />Undoggedly I interest myself <br />in his uninteresting concerns, <br />grow backward to him, <br />more than hoping to find <br />a forward interest for myself.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/occupation-father-2/
