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Poetry by
Michael
January 09, 2003 |
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Children |
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It's an interesting question: who we are when we're not looking. I wonder. I worry. I write this riddle across two pages on purpose. You need both you see. The days wind down and I fidget. I'm smaller than I used to be, like a balled up fist -- and stronger. Did I tell you that I met a girl? Things change so quickly that it seems the world can spin on a dime. Speaking of the world, I read about the universe: "We know now that our planet is an insignificant speck circling an ordinary star, far out on a spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy, which is an ordinary congress of a few hundred billion stars among at least a hundred billion galaxies." -- National Geographic. I'm smaller these days -- yes, but the world is small with me. I have more wool and less leather. My music is softer but still full of passion. My new home has yellow walls, and the bed is set in its own nook. I'm happy, but I worry. I wonder. I think the reason I've been obliterating my possessions is fear of war. Have nothing and you have nothing to lose. I see the war in my father. I think I've always seen it there. I see the war in the streets. I'd say that at least once a week (for more years than I can remember) I've imagined my city ravaged by war. And always the same thought pursues me: "Those fools think it can't come here." And these days they wave the bomb like a sputtering torch above a slick of oil that covers us all. Where is our bard bowman? I wonder. I worry. The days wind down and I fidget -- no longer inconceivable that I will be thirty. What then my children, what then? Could it be that one day we won't be kids? Till that day then. |
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