we worry about the children
we send them out spit-shined
bring them in on electronic leads
come. speak. hug.
we do our best.
take their time.
feed them memories,
lessons learned,
our manifestos
printed on cereal boxes
we worry
they will ask
what we can’t tell
or they won’t ask
they will know
what we know
or what we don’t
we worry
children fattened on our principles
one day will feel
the bones beneath our shirts.
and who else has been feeding them?
meanwhile the children go on
being
people
braving the gap between
expected
and
understood
we worry
will we know them
once they have found
their
way?
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