Soft and Warm

I’d spend the day there,

Curled up in bed if I could,

But alas, work calls.


Why is that?

My roommate used to say,
Go to bed, it’ll look better in the morning.

Why is that?

I cried once today for a friend
whose dad is not-so-slowly dying
and cried again tonight for a character
grieving the loss of a wife on TV.

Do we cry easier, having cried once?
Is that part of being human?
Don’t tell me it’s just me.
The fount of eternal tears has opened.

If I sleep, the flower closes up against the dark.
The fountain closes for business.
The guards shoo out the lingering emotions
and shutter up the park for the night.

Eventually the guards cement the entrances
and I have another day to break down
the obstruction before tears, and once again,
when it falls, it crumbles. Tears stampede freely.

I remember Paul saying, I too am a man.
And so I add, I am a woman. I am human.
I cry with my friends. I cry for the loss of life.
I cry for what might have been and what might be.