Adults, at three

They are little seeds
of forty-something human beings
with bank accounts and stresses,
tensions carried in their shoulders
like the capes they wear this year.
They are unbridled explorers
whose map is shrinking every year,
who haven’t learned what satellites
have done to the field of cartography;
and in uneducated enthusiasm
believe the upstairs is a cavern
filled with mystery, adventure, surprise.
They are criminals
whose disregard for law is borne
out of supreme regard for self,
who knows no master, nor claims
mastery over any other: it was here
so I put it in my hands and used it,
not as an insult, but simply
never considering what it meant,
because what could toothpaste mean,
ever, even fingerprinted on the wall?
There is no innocence or guilt;
no delight nor disappointment,
no irresponsibility nor freedom—
for we have not taught them yet:
The world has not yet mustered
the cruelty and joy required
to crack these seeds,
and let them grow.

December 2019