The Wasted Night

Another night of wasted time,
coming to a wimpered close.
When in my staggered saunter, I...
tripped upon my father's pose.

Who in our home's black silhouette,
paced toward me with a frantic calm
but -- to brief relief chased with regret --
he simply whispered, "John".

The name bestowed and shared with me,
in turn shared with his father.
The source of our identity,
now had me in a bother.

For the only light that I could peak,
while basking in the moon's lagoon
was streaming down my father's cheek
as if to scream aloud, "Too soon!"

And in his car, he sped away,
to mourn the John who lost the fight,
leaving me behind to stay.
Weeping in the wasted night.