In my head, I’m constantly writing poems that
my eventually grown children are meant to write.
They are clever, profound, widely read.
They are poems of genuine appreciation.
No hint of resentment taints them.
Bitterness does not inhabit them.
These poems are sophisticated and wise,
demonstrating a balanced perspective
regarding the inherent flaws of raising children.
They are not accompanied by outrageous future therapy bills,
neither do they reflect countless hours at workshops on
primal scream re-parenting your neglected child within.
There is, in fact, a steady progression toward clemency.
It begins in the adorable toddler years
with endless decrees of “No!” and “Mine!”
while moving to complete absolution
as the authors confront their progeny’s own
murky, moody, mean adolescence.
With a grace I have not yet found myself,
they pardon every last parental lapse,
(cc) Karen G. Johnston