What bothers me most
is what might happen after we “make it someday”
When the grass is greener
and the sky is clearer.
When we get to choose what battles we attend,
and what we want to wrestle with.
Because we know, at the end of the day,
there’s a safety net beneath us.
I fear that we’ll move at a pace
faster than the people who built our foundations.
Unintentionally leaving the hand that fed us
in dreary dust and distance.
I fear looking through the plated glass
peering at our past running, running
Running not fast enough
but just enough to hear “traitor
Not one of us anymore
she’s gone, cold turkey.”
And I fear that we’ll think
ah, they’re just backward.