sweet ariel

sweet ariel,
what of the rest of us?
my father hasn’t yet died
nor my mother
nor my son
I’ve still a roof overhead, for now
I’ve been subjected
to no particular abuse
yet, I’m weary of the beatings
like everyone
but we haven’t much to complain of
when you get right down to it
what of the rest of us?
the ones who are fine, really
but who are– not well
what shall we write
our poems about?

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I've come to write.

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