Another free verse poem. It started out to be a sonnet, but got stubborn.
Life is a matter of disappointing oneself
always again. Duplicitous at your desk,
you pretend you know what you’re doing
and patch together something good enough.
You offer up small principles to comfort,
blast the A/C because sweat makes you itch.
You hold back the needed sharp truth
out of squeamishness, only to slash with it
later in a moment of pique. Friends die
you haven’t called. That’s life, but not
for everyone. Some people move
differently through space, people not better
or worse than we, but less concerned with it,
for which I envy them. Where they are is not short
of someplace else.