at ninety

ninety came quick
for him.
how many ships, how many children
and women
sailed through his
laborious life.
hardly a year
without a storm,
without a port to call
a new home.
he's boiled now, charred
and
aching.
some of it intentionally done,
some
done to him.
the pain knows no
difference.
at ninety i'll give him a call,
and forgive
forget,
embrace
the man he always wanted
to be but couldn't.