Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About
Judith Viorst
My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it."
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.
The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.
This poem reminds me of the daily news and every conversation I've overheard the last couple months that is like a multiple choice test with varying degrees of terrible answers to the question:
I. Question: What are your thoughts on (insert your own topic du jour here)?
a. the sky is falling
b. imminent catastrophe looms on the horizon
c. the entire world is going to Hell in a hand basket
d. the Apocalypse is real and not a Biblical allegory
e. America is the next third world country
f. Obama is sending us to Hell without a handbasket
g. the 50's were such simpler, wholesome times
h. the Puritans really had all the answers
i. the recession is not over and it the Great Depression will pale in contrast
j. get your 72-hour kit stocked because fire and brimstone happens Tuesday
k. the poor just don't know how good they have it here
l. a-k
I think I'm just going to worry about things I can control, do the best I can, and do my homework.
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