Wheels of time
spin on
and I'm
nauseous.

It's easy to explain, really.
If never a father I become,
then never shall I be a failure at it.

*****.
Half-man, boy-child.
Weak.
Immature.
Unfinished.

All of the above,
sure... but,
not a failed father.

Again wheels start to creak,
and I'm already knee-deep
in empty cans of WD40.