He always fretted as a tiny boy
About what would happen if people called
Or 'something happened' while he was in bed. At school he worried about the million,
Inconsequential things that children fear.
He was anxious, as a youth, for the Earth,
Its peoples, their futures (and his own) and
About how he looked and what people thought of
Him and of his clothes and his taste in bands. As he aged he worried about his boss,
The bank account and the kids, the mortgage
And his thinning hair and mouldering car
And then about his pension and his hips
And his back and teeth and the kids again
Until he became uneasy about
His funeral costs and about his death. He feared a painful ending and what would,
Or would not, come thereafter.
Agonies Of indecision racked him concerning
Deathbed confession or conversion to
Another faith, just in case he had been
Mistaken, misled, since a tiny boy
Worried about what would happen when he
Was not there and was at his rest above. Centuries later, the dust that had been
The boy and the man brooded quietly
And worried silently about where it
Would be blown next and what the people there
Would think of it when it settled on them. | 
