I teach my children how to say nothing
with as many words as possible,
How love means never having to fix anything
as long as I'm crucified trying,
That dishes can be cleaned, dinners can be made,
laundry can exist in folded piles.
And, no matter what chore I'm doing,
I must stop to allow their cherished
Noodlings of youthful ennui to be
more urgent, more life affirming
Than those of the time I come from,
which only exist now in shameless echo.
How I wish even that, for it turns out the things
that were hardest to learn must be wrong,
And the rules that saved me from ruin are fit
for museums, like live burials and Catherine wheels.
Adults should be seen and not heard, they say,
like the statuesque heroes of yesterday,
And when their questions are asked about me,
I keep it as brief as they can stand.
I'm waiting for them to leave home
so I can miss them
As they wait for me to stop doing, doing for everyone else
and have something at last for myself.
