A Burden of Worry
What I know to be true is that
Daily, we come out of ourselves
Peeking from under our shells like
Turtles, mere puddles of nerves
Determined to test the waters of
Worry, deserving of answers.
And daily, we muddle through the
Muck, sometimes so nearly stuck
In our father’s shoes, confused
By the awkward fit and wondering
At the need to wear them at all.
Some days, it’s all I can do to
Convince myself that fathers are
No less human than me or you,
Or my son, or the man next door,
That we’re all diamonds slightly
Flawed and the burden of worry
Is merely a jar sealed too tight.
Copyright 1993 by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers.