A Serious Man - Nov 29 2025

 

A Serious Man

Nov 29 2025

I am a serious man. 

Seriousness in a man should be expected

even if it is less fun.

But the serious child

seems unnatural.

Who can’t lose himself.

Who bears the weight of the world.

Whose face betrays 

his relentless questioning

— the furrowed brow and bitten lip,

the vulnerable eyes

with their dark sleepless circles.

A joyless child 

without abandonment.

A child who is preternaturally old,

either too much of this world 

or who richly imagines the worst.

A fearful child

who can’t remember dreams

or would rather forget,

and who still insists 

on sleeping with the lights on.

Like brooding poets

and consumptive ones

he is thin, sallow, and restless.

He is not friendless,

but they’re too much like him

and never really get close.

His parents think he’s “special”,

but aren’t sure what to do

and have worries of their own. 

Serious children

were either born serious

or suffer for our sins;

the offspring of war, famine, and neglect.

They are overly sensitive,

in need of gentle handling

and attentive care;

but even if they get enough

it’s often gotten wrong. 

So if you run into one

take him seriously.

It gets better, you’ll say

but won’t be believed.

You’ll want to give him a hug

but he’ll likely rebuff you;

or, if he does accede

will stiffen up in your arms

then wiggle free.

If you’re a serious man, you’ll understand.

And if not, you will pity him,

look for someone to blame,

insist on fun.

But better than pity

and more than play

listening works.

Because his questions are good

and his vision pure,

not so much innocent

as disarmingly naïve.

The serious man is cynical,

but the serious child 

not yet. 

 

I was reading a criticism of the stereotypical tech-bro — Zuckerberg, in particular—which depicted them as unserious and careless. As opposed to serious men. 

Which a man should be. Not the adolescent frat-boy’s version of musclebound and predatory manliness. Not the manosphere’s cartoonish version. And not the unserious men — venal, social-climbing, oleaginous, ignorant, and unself-aware— who gravitate to Trump, and whom he appoints to high office.

Was the serious man once a serious child? Which doesn’t sound right: a serious man, sure, that’s the desirable version of masculinity; but serious child sounds oxymoronic. Childhood isn’t a time for seriousness. Which is the thought process that led to this poem.

I’d call myself a serious man. And I was a serious child. So even though my poems are decidedly not autobiographical, some of this is even true.