This minefield can't last much longer.
I feel the gray hairs grow on my head
when I don't understand what I said
that made one of my daughter's cry.
And when I do understand what I said
I don't understand why she would cry
but then I begin to wonder why
I even said what I said.
Then there's the times I don't say what I say
and they wonder why so quiet, dad?
Well, dear, give me a minute.
Right now I'm on my knees with a tiny brush
measuring the fractious steps necessary,
avoiding a buried peril.
I think I've spotted it and might could be able
to disarm the spring releases, unscrew the caps, remove the fuses
and in careful stages of navigation
hope not to join the silent generation of men.