Guilt
Looking past the mess of this world
requires a certain kind of vision, and
tuning out the noise requires a filter
of near-magical quality. There can be
no stillness here when everyone is
a hustler, everyone vibrates, everyone
stands on their corner proclaiming
the end of times. We are all prophets.
We all have corners. We have all been
called to call upon each other to do
something. Aren't there wars to fight
and fires to put out? Aren't the least
of us still suffering? Aren't we less
if we are uninformed and unoffended?
Isn't a sense of urgency our solemn
responsibility to create and to sustain?
How else can we claim to be good
stewards of our home, the keepers
of our brothers. Imagine our guilt if
we fail to be part of the solution, if
we bask idly in the sun and read a
poem, if we dance together in the
kitchen before dinner, if we shuffle
a deck of cards and deal out a hand
of euchre. Imagine our shame, to still
find joy with all this panicking to do.
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