Addicts

by Richard Hartwell

I have three sons who are addicted,
addicted to their age and ages.

One son is addicted to pills and morphine,
chemicals that extend his day, so he
can do all that is required of him.
Or so he tells himself.

Another is addicted to sex and the
wiles of a young woman, so much so
that now he’s addicted to a young family,
a job and a nine-to-five routine
that seems to extend to the horizon.

The third son is addicted to music, raves,
the ravages of body piercing,
inflicting on himself the pain
his words inflict upon his mother.

I have three sons who are addicted,
but then it seems to me we are all
addicted sons ourselves or, rather,
sons of addiction.