The stroller patrol assembles in front of 149,
New neighbors introduce Korean commands.
A couple baby-pushers emerge again,
Their husbands ask when I am going to sart mine.
I kick stones and wonder if, not when.
Angie, 27, worries if we will regret
Not having children when we age.
The greedy pig I am, I wonder if I can pass
My last chance to get up on the stage,
Or will my children find a way to last
Through the turmoil I, myself go through?
When will commitment start to wane
And golf clubs beckon back to sunny greens?
I’m not the father type that people claim
“A child won’t change you,” so they say, but true?
An old acquaitance that I never knew
Has two children, another on the way.
He’s nice, and he makes a ton of dough.
That makes raising children less to do,
And now he gets a chance to play.
The only difference is the type of games,
And giving up on dreams already dead.
This neighborhood is fine for starting kids.
So what if nothing ever is the same,
So far all we ever could have done, we did.