A soft underhand throw to a target,
that's fatherhood on a good day.
When it's summer and there are a
few post holes to dig,
before freedom comes responsibility.
I quit I learned young,
take me back,
I can't handle this,
this time I've thought about it,
and no is the answer,
though you didn't ask.
To what do I owe these endings
or to whom?
I could say
Thanks Dad
but I can't
anymore.
I have only a body of organs
to appreciate for the indelicate sounds
I make under conditions of discomfort.
Thus, how to proceed, under which
auspices will joy's foal be freed?
Cannot know is the answer
I understand
and yet
once again
I resign the insight
that might set me properly adrift.
Roman Ryan 