from Letters to You
with an earlier verse published in The New Yorker
by Douglas Morea
Morea was born in 1945 in Queens, New York City, and grew up primarilay there, marrying and moving to Delaware in his late 20s, where he with their mother Kass raised two daughters to successful adulthood. He memains in Delaware now with his second wife, Karen.
His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Dreamstreets, and The Mickle Street Review, which awarded him the Doris Kellog neale prize in 1984.
HEY CANADA GEESE, HOW COME YOUR BABIES ALMOST NEVER GET RUN OVER ANYMORE?
feeding in the grassy drainage ditch by my roadside.
Year after year.
And years ago,
when you were new parents, there'd be sad fuzzy buff bumpies
on my road; but hardly ever any more.
You learned to be good parents,
teach your children what
Except, we humans can't.
While most of you arise by wise adults, seasoned on many seasons,
we get raised by raw near-children.
Humans mostly have but one shot parenting, then
Like you, we learn to keep them off the road, but often
not in time. Like yours, our wisdom grows, but ours grows only old,
and with us dies.
Why did the human cross the road,
only to become a sad fuzzy bumpy, for nothing
on the other side?