For my Teddy Bear revised 8-26-98
You're older than some of my friends,
old enough to drink wine if you could,
but of course you can't.
I still have you next to my bed
after 21 years.
Your leather paws the same as they always were,
counterpoint to the now rough coat.
Strange how your skin went from silk to gauze to burlap.
I see your sunken chest as you sit by my bed.
Maybe the years of neglect broke your spirit
but you're still there, if missing an eye.
I can't remember all my crimes against you.
I know promised not grow up.
My body broke that promise
It was too late by the time I realized
the rest of me had.
I can't even say I'm sorry.
Only that I'm sorry crime led to crime.
You can always stay by my bed.
Let it be enough that I remember the day
Mom sewed you for me, when we were both young.
I know when I was a kid I didn't particularly thrill to the idea of growing up but this feels a bit overdone. I suppose I can respect the sincerity of the sentiment but now that I'm nearly 33 instead of 24 this poem seems like a weird reminder of things about myself I don't like. On the other hand, I really do still have the teddy bear next to my bed. It's one of the stuffed animals my Mom made for me herself and I've never had the desire to throw it away. This probably only goes back as far as my being about four years old when I think my Mom had to fix the bear for me. I'll try to make a point to not post too many poems that actually include biographical information in the future.
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