Finally, I’m worried

Dr. Evil and Trump

On this New Year’s Eve,  here’s a “worry poem” I wrote back in 2008.

I’m worried about other things this year:  my divided country at the top of the list. But here’s this one anyway:

Finally, I’m worried


I’m worried about Petunias.

The ten year old seeds stewing in my

windowbox peat seed starter

are not starting.

If they do, I worry if they’ll grow.

I worry if they will survive

the transfer to outside.

I worry if the rabbits will eat them.


I’m also worried about Nuala,

my idiosyncratic friend,

she of the pontifications

against the Republicans,

who, in church,

picks at her ear with

her little finger,

and then studies the gleanings

intently, head down,

eyes above her glasses.

I’m worried she will lose her job

for incorrigible quirkiness.


I’m even more worried about Emily,

my bashful student,

she of the singular smiles

when listening to a private conversation

which seems to be taking place

within her mind,

between those sandy braids.

She of the zipped up hoodie,

late adolescence

like a lilac holding back its bloom

due to unseasonably cold weather.

I’m worried she will lose her will to live

when she’s home for the summer.


Finally I’m worried about the receipts

I’ve lost,

the weight I’ve gained,

the dreams I forget.


<a href=””>Finally</a&gt;


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