What Conditions Well Met

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.

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