Maturity

One learns, at last, to compromise,
To take a fork to what's excreted
On his plate and swallow it with
Anger at a world which appears
To have no room for one. The meal,
In time, will seem okay. The anger
Turns upon oneself, and, as the
Milestones arrive, a raise, a
Chance to issue orders, comfort
In a cozy home, one feels as if
He's made some room, and,
Though it clearly isn't much,
Far less than what he'd wanted
Once, one wags one's finger at
His children, “you must
Compromise.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 87 times
Written on 2014-03-15 at 12:33

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