You’re in the foxhole, once you have had kids.
Before you could be blithe about death,
Your own, other's- affect some posture of
Cynicism or indifference or rueful depth
Meditating on it with tented fingers, keen to impress
at parties or down the pub. But now
At least for me, it’s all just- please, please, please
Keep them safe or,
If it's going to be something bad, not too bad, not
Life-changing or death and as for me.
Let me live long enough to get them through to adulthood, then
You can deal with me as you please.
Entreating, something, anything, whatever agency
sits at the centre of things
And tips disaster your way on a whim.
It’s God, I suppose, I’m talking to.
Some force that can be implored with to intervene,
So we won't be subject to pure contingency
-banal accidents crossing roads or climbing trees,
Caught up in the spasms of the mad, the careless or the predatory.
Or illness or disease or..please
Please, please just let us make it through
All the hazards. After all, most people do.
Or at least leave us be long enough so I can know-
I paid my dues-
to the Universe,
to you,
to your mother
When we were all down in the foxhole,
Briefly together.
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