We never wondered how we’d get more food.
We always had a roof over our heads.
We didn’t act with privileged attitude
although we all had clothes and our own beds.
Our parenting was adequate. Abuse
was rare compared to what we hear about.
We mostly never had a good excuse
for violence, depression, acting out.

And yet we each experienced real pain
we half-submerged, because we suffered guilt
for our good fortune. How could we complain
while harvesting the precious from the silt
invasion loosed, in cataclysm’s dirt?
We’re First World lucky but we feel our hurt.