A second cake, a second book.
A second painting, a second dish.
Each brings its own kind of worry.
That you’ve let down the side somehow.
Missed something, screwed up something.
Put in curry when it should have been cumin.
Painted light blue where it should have been green.
Said hello again instead of letting things end at goodbye.
Then the fear that those who loved the first will hate the second.
And your name will be mud, but none will look you in the eye and say so.
There’s only one thing to do, I know, because I’ve worried about many things.
Look your fear right in the eye, sit down somewhere comfortable, and laugh and laugh.
Dedicated to Brenda and everyone else who’s ever created a second something.