Holding Up
You return home from a hard time
to find the furniture moved. Duties
accrue politely on the brim of tragedy.
They make room for the tragedy,
but now and then they stage cough.
One day, “I hope you’re doing okay
in this difficult time,” robbed of context
will scan as “Best” or “Yours truly,”
a perennial nicety signifying only
that this is the end of the message.
Remember having enough oxygen to mourn
a pop star who’d departed a little early?
We must stop saying, “Fuck the year it is.”
The pain of this year is no anomaly.
We must instead ratify the present
for the opportunity it has given us
to endure. The children’s hospital
needs more blood, and should have it.
