The title of the poem says it all...
Fear
He sits, vigilant,
in a hard-backed chair,
twirling a thin mustache
between thumb
and forefinger.
Any time there is
a knock at the door,
he is quick to
get there first.
I never even try
to beat him
to the punch.
Look - I say to him –
You have done this
my whole life.
Can’t you let
someone else
respond?
Absolutely not – he says.
You gave me this job,
and I will always
perform.
All right – I say.
But I will follow
and decide myself
how to welcome
any arrival.
His shoulders
slump a bit.
He is so used
to being
in control.
But I am no longer
a child, or even
an adult.
I am an old woman.
It is time
to take my place.
I sit down
In that chair.
He backs off
and goes to stand
in the corner,
waiting.
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