All the Livelong Dare

My little brother, being daring to
the nth degree, climbs oak trees near the lake
and stands close to the shore.  He’s overdue,
I say to myself.  O perhaps I make
too much of this kid stuff, being a wart
of worry as the older brother staid,
yet he is flesh and blood like me, that part
of frailty that keeps the doctors paid.
There he goes again--now it’s the skateboard
and level streets are not enough for thrill
and rush to urge his adrenals toward
whatever high can be achieved at will.
Harbingers are born from little brothers,
daring without the slightest ounce of care
for a sibling’s lookout, or for mothers
who would sag like frowns in the nearest chair
if only half of what goes on was known.
Little League is too at peace for the tyke;
he must run alongside danger, disown
all safeguards against over-tin-cups, bike
like Knievel down ravine roads at speeds
alien to all caution, swing on vines
that beckon for ensnaring.  He exceeds
all safety and, with ruthless dare, aligns.

24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
August 19, 2013