Second Best

I’d like to believe I was brave enough

To confront the young father at the table near mine

This morning at the health-food restaurant

When I happened to see him slap his son

For spilling a glass of orange juice,

That what held me back was the fear my reproof

Might only make him harder to live with.

But I have to admit that beneath the fear

Of doing more harm than good lay the fear

He might throw his napkin down on the table

And storm out, leaving his son behind,

As if to say, “Big shot, try fathering for yourself.”

Only if I were ready to rise to that challenge,

It seemed to me then, could I claim the right

To issue a reprimand, and I saw no evidence

I was ready. I couldn’t summon the faith

That once I’d acted I’d discover within me

A well of loving patience I never suspected

This morning when I left the hermitage

Of my quiet side street to visit the world.

All I can do now is fall back on the lesser virtue

Of honesty, along with the virtue of giving

The young father the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe he felt ashamed of himself

Almost at once, while adopting a pose

Of cool indifference. Maybe he swore an oath

To himself only yesterday to impose more discipline

On moods he’s inflicted on others for far too long.

And here he is, breaking his oath already

While other fathers like him, whose own fathers

Were just as hotheaded as his father was,

Have taken the first small steps in the right direction,

Learning to count, for instance, slowly to ten.

So why, he wants to know, is the task so far

Proving too hard for him?