“From 2009 to 2021, the share of American high-school students who say they feel “persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness” rose from 26 percent to 44 percent.” – The Atlantic

When I was your age
I walked three-hundred miles to school
through rain or heat, dodging missiles
and speeding cars.

(this was when we treated
rain as a nuisance, not a miracle)

When I was your age
I watched the Twin Towers fall over breakfast
and for weeks a replay of the collapse
on every TV, as if on a loop.

When I was your age I suffered from acne, too,
was warned that if I got bad grades, dropped out,
spent too much time on poems, the sky would come
crashing down.

(have they warned you it might crash down regardless?)

By now I’ve lived long enough
for the days to feel like a rerun
of a TV show I would watch on those summer days
when school was out and it was too hot
to play outside.

What I mean to say is, it doesn’t get better, or worse.
For example, last night I couldn’t sleep. At 3 AM
I heard my son dreaming in his crib;
what wonders flitted through his mind, I do not know;
nor did my wife and dog stir when I got up
to look out at the aging, crumbling world,
the leaves so delicate and dry
a word said in anger might
denude a forest of hope…

Can you see the stain of my tears
on the window?