By my watch, it's the Worrying Hour.
(That translates to approximately five thirty, Central Time.)
I give my worries an hour to do ply their craft each day,
Then stuff them back into my nervous system for later.
I'm astounded by my spiritual immaturity,
in my refusal to relinquish my fears for you.
I don't care to discuss them.
Wording my speculations might be like
loading a previously jammed weapon,
according to my frayed logic.
I'm not even confident that I understand
what the doctors are double-checking for on Friday,
since Dr. Double For Indiana Jones insists
that you do not behave like a sick baby.
But who calls the trucks out to a smokeless fire?
The sound echo of your round, new face
is sleeping on my desk.
I talk to the you in that picture,
the you that looks so much like my dad.
I'm comforted that you look so unbothered,
and I'm grateful for this glimpse of you...
you look like you couldn't be anything but perfect.
No matter what,
You are.
And you will be.
You will be.
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