Wednesday, October 2, 2013
I heard a sad story today about someone I once knew.
It would give Job a little comfort,
if it's true that misery loves company.
Except this is about real life and those who live it
find no comfort in Job.
For a while I pondered if I could live such a life.
One disaster after another, no respite, no hope
because death only writes tragic scripts
about the end of drama.
Then I became embarrassed, almost ashamed.
Embarrassed because I was glad.
The way I'm glad when the menace of loud sirens
indicating someone has been hurt, turns out to be
someone else's someone, not someone belonging to me.
I was embarrassed that sometimes I'm shaded
by my humanity, that I can't open the window
of compassion enough to see
everyone's suffering as me.
I was glad my story's simpler, easier.
My perceived suffering almost a mockery
compared to those whose lives pulse
to the beat of agony,
who refuse pity, because it helps
not at all.
At that moment, helpless to do more,
I made a wish and a decision, took a breath,
exhaled, "Thank you."
Then I washed the dishes.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)