Worry for us is so dear…
O weeping bearer of my lost heart,
once your grief is forgotten you beat
the bongo between my ear.
How long have you hidden in the red mead
that gives us life? The beginning
seems long ago. Worry for us is so dear.
I remember one child sick with memory
whose mother would sincere swift from her car with, “Honey,
brush these things underneath a rug.”
Yet he could never make past moments dust or a bug.
When he was older, then, how he would measure
life from disorder to disorder until
all his wants and wishes were lived with pleasure,
all his wants and wishes had jobs and lives of their own,
and all his wants and wishes had their fill
and the only wanter and wisher of them all was alone,
dried up as news pages, wrinkled as bar clothing,
every pay check given up or blown.
There is solace a check-list may bring
to have a home and be grown.