Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
The author’s work can be found in the volume, Good Bones: Poems.
Think about how the poem made you feel. To what degree do you believe the horrors of the world should be kept from our young ones, and for how long? Or do you believe they must be shown the real world in order to help be a part of its beautiful restoration?
May you live out another beautiful poem in the collection of your life today, and we’ll see you again tomorrow.