a man of all sorts

He stepped into the sunlight,
Squinting,
Glad for the freedom, yet
Confused about what to do.

Life began pushing in
Before
He was capable of
Pushing back.

It’s not that he was
Young
Or inexperienced; rather
He skipped maturity,

Straight to mid-twenties,
Deficient
Of the caution and brains
That come from participation.

His old man said he was
Nothing;
That his life would be
Garden-variety.

Why not rebel? Why not
Run?
What’s the point of
Even trying to be, to do?

Who can begin to
Save
Him from dime-a-dozen
Failure and doom?

They said he’d never
Bloom;
That he’d simply exist
Like a speck of dirt

Lying under the bed
Far
From reach of the broom,
Crusty and peevish;

Totally lacking in
Relevance,
As if life was already over
And the bring-about was nil.

©2017 Steven Barto