To suffer it all again

It has always been obvious

to my lovers and children,

to comrades and friends,

that I am an angry man.

I didn’t start that way,

or mean to be like that.

I was never made by anyone

to be other than who I am.

How I got that way remains

beyond my comprehension

and expressions of regret

have been too long delayed.

Confession helps, of course,

but memory makes a better bridge

to a second life in joy and dance

and boiling blood and small victory.

Anger abides as always,

but bends before the recurring wish

to jazz it up once more,

to suffer it all again.