I laugh, almost painfully now, at my youthful fear:
Being abducted at night by aliens.
Now, as something of a budding adult at forty years,
What causes insomnia, a rippling of rudy guts twisting within
Is something, anything bad happening to my two beautiful children,
Failing at being a husband, that these bullet-like words dutifully cast to the page
Like time out the window, ashes from fingertips, an unfelt wind
Will never be witnessed, an electronic comet will wipe them out in a rage,
The insipid question will linger from the lips of elders once again,
“Do you still write?”
And no one will even ask a follow-up inquiry when
I say I have a book that was just accepted for publication, as if the light
I try frantically, with ever-reaching but stubborn fingertips, to wield
Is too harsh, obscure, insignificant for their superior sights
So, like the scarecrow, all my creative output, worth, inner-plight
Must be abandoned, ignored, left to be pecked to death by vultures in a field.
Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning filmmaker and screenwriter. A noted poet, critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, he runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.