“What should I do?” the child asks again,
and mother says amid her busyness,
“Go hit your head against a wall” and then
“Don’t bother me – this kitchen is a mess.”
That’s how suburban childhood plays out
among advantages the folks afford,
but children everywhere, I have no doubt,
are often noteworthy for being bored.

So boredom seems a graver ill than grief,
and hardship’s more inviting than ennui.
The shroud of nothing good to do’s a thief
of time and prisoned deep in memory,
for even now, my plate too full to clear,
an hour of boredom is my biggest fear.