Tuesday, November 10, 2009


As I’m getting more “mature”
 I can admit to certain things
I lied about before – Like this –
I never learned to ride a bike.
In my young life I hid that fact,
Would make excuses not to go
On bicycle excursions.

I have the penmanship, not of a doctor, no,
Far worse – My writing’s not too unlike
A boy in the second grade, or third.
It is absurd when my offspring say
It’s my fault that they’re handicapped
By the hand they got from me.
I tell them, “Well, then, type.”

The worst I guess, I must confess
Is sometimes when I read a book
I read the ending first.

Our three kids are grownups now
With children of their own.
That doesn’t mean we’re less concerned
Than when those three of ours were new!
If truth be told, I must admit
It worries me we cannot read
The unlived pages of their lives.

Nor can we wrap the grandkids up
In bubble wrap so they won’t break
Their bones or hearts along the way.

Life's a book that can't be read
From back to front.