Vox Meditantis

The boy I was at seventeen
would hate the way I check the door,
the ritual of the lock, the latch, the lean
to test the wood, then check once more.
He’d mock the way I map the exits out
before I’ve even sat to drink my tea,
the quiet hum of catastrophic doubt
that shares this rented flat with me.

He thought that adulthood meant bravery,
a shutting off of noise, a steady hand.
He didn’t know the subtle slavery
of building castles in the shifting sand,
then watching for the tide with bated breath.
He’d scream to see me frozen by a bill,
convinced an unpaid tax leads straight to death,
or how I let the worry swell and spill.

But then, he’d be surprised to hear me laugh
when skies turn grey and plans dissolve to dust.
He’d see me write a joke on my own epitaph,
finding a punchline in the loss of trust.
He wouldn’t get how terror and delight
can sit together at the dinner table,
how I can shake with fear throughout the night
yet wake to spin a funny, twisted fable.

I tolerate the dread because I must,
I let the panic ride the passenger seat.
But younger me would view it with disgust,
this diplomatic, humorous defeat.
I wonder if he’s right to be appalled,
or if he simply hasn’t lived enough
to know that when the final bluff is called,
it’s laughter, not just courage, that is tough.

Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.