I was a good son, a reclusive one, though.
When my parents intruded wherever I’d go,
asking “What are you doing?” it bugged me, and so
with a shrug, I would mutter, “just doing.”
For I liked to keep secrets and liked to be free
in my own little world no one else had to see.
My projects, I felt, mattered only to me;
to my parents, their son was “just doing.”
I considered my interest too private to share
with my parents, and put on an arrogant air.
I suppose that was selfish, but I didn’t care,
and continued to mutter, “just doing.”
Now that’s all in the past and my parents are gone,
but I’m facing a fact I had not counted on:
Notwithstanding the cloak of importance we don,
we spend most of our lifetimes “just doing.”
© Gerry Busch, 2015