Blame it on birth, the last born gets leftovers,
the hand-me-downs that continue into adulthood,
always the poor relation watching discarded TVs
and driving worn through cars. Only the food is new—
who eats gently used food? Not that you haven’t
tried to find a way, gullible to the lies from teachers
and, in Fourth Commandment* awkwardness, other authorities,
as if right guides to find a life better left behind.
Their dreams aren’t yours, but the courage that heals,
promised by Jesus, lies far away. Cast them off your back
like a harness too heavy before you’re left to bear the
guilt
while muttering the hymn, “Heaven is My Home,” the solace
of the put-upon because without it you’d collapse
like Job, bearing on your lips the curse of being born.
*From the Small Catechism of Martin Luther:
"The Fourth Commandment: Honor your father and mother. What does this mean? We should fear and love God so that we do not despise or anger our parents and other authorities, but honor them, serve and obey them, love and cherish them."
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