The day is dying in the sky
Outside my window, here at work:
And I’d be home right now, except
I’m always, always worried
That what’s been done is not enough;
That what’s been right will soon be wrong,
That I have missed some crucial thing
As pressures get more flurried
Eventually, I leave this place,
The evening dark, and now the smells
Of grilling steaks from o’er the way
Come wafting through the air
And take me back to decades past;
My father young and at the grill,
When I had worries, sure, I did,
But I was fully there
And not distracted all the time
With ideals of what I should be,
That I will never, ever meet
That edge away my sanity
And as I swing into the car
I look around at me at the lights,
And know we’re born to beauty and
To struggle – both of them, by rights —
Believe me when I tell this you:
My certainty is ever small,
But I am glad you read these words,
And, really, that you’re there
At all
To share is human:
