Growing
Anxiety is hereditary. That seems to be the case. We pass down so much to each other. Boomerangs and hula hoops, these are no longer toys and we are no longer children. Though the world is so vast it makes us adolescent again or maybe we never grew up? Grown is such a term for the plants and foliage. At least they keep the friends they have. Maybe this isn't true? Baby birds eventually leave, next thing you know you're cleaning an empty nest with discarded shells. It's funny how that works out. At the same time why don't you carve me a solution out of the fallen winter branches? I need additional toys for my childhood self. He doesn't leave. Imagination keeps him intact. Who knows what he'd do without it, possibly the same as other children? No, that's a mind trick, fear of the unknown. We square back to zero, the shape of a stomach.
Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Eye Flash Poetry, Neon Mariposa, A Twist in Time Magazine, Elephants Never (among other publications). twitter.com/storiesyoumight / https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/
This poem's narrator has a good case of modern anxiety. At least, his imagination provides a hybrid comfort.
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