The underhanded background sound of hissing

By Richard Battin

Through all the gray and fearful childhood nights

Of fretting in some ignominious light;

For me, at least, and who I think I am,

I’m led to think the whole thing is a scam.

Of faceless, spineless flummery and fear;

Of losing something persistently unclear.

Certainly no comfort to be treasured

Against the things by which my life is measured.

I writhe in total ignorance and reek

Of one who wrestles everything he seeks,

And envy those who do not see the days

As harbingers of clandestine malaise.

Or pity them, or think nothing at all

Of countless times I’ve stood before the fall

And looked around, my face twisted in wry,

And grinned before I turned away to cry.

So they could see, and know I had not broken

A meaningless and misbegotten token;

Of always trying, striving to be missing

The underhanded background sound of hissing.

To each and every one of you who thought

That what was then has already been wrought,

I sigh now, both to nurture and dismay,

The silent tears you’re sure to turn away.