Too Late

 i wonder if it’s too late, at nine-months-

old, for my son to begin making contingency plans

in case he’s inherited his father’s

 

anxieties. there are so many checklists,

to-do lists, flow charts, mindfulness activities, and

journals we should be working on, operating under the

 

assumption that his imagination mal-

functions like mine, like a nose-deaf

bloodhound, tracking down the ghosts of crises

that will never materialize. maybe, he should

 

be playing a sport to lower his cortisol levels

and to build a social safety net while also looking for

supplemental hobbies to take his mind

off the pressure to win. or he could take up

 

an instrument. i know he’d be getting a late start

compared to some of the greats, but he should

be able to catch up with enough extra practice. we really need

 

to get going on a rigid regimen of structured

relaxation. we have to nip this in the bud right away,

just as we find a natural lull in his nursery

rhymes. he’s been in a free fall

his entire life without realizing

it. how can he just sit there,

chewing on that toy airplane, ignoring the dread

woven into his DNA?

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2022)

I was watching my baby play with his toys one day, and I found myself wondering why he isn't as stressed out as I am, why he isn't worried all the time about every little detail of his life. This poem is meant to be ironic. I really thought it was going to be one of my best poems while I was writing it, but something just feels off about it. Maybe it's too heavy-handed with the message.