A First World Problem

Entitled and intelligent, I blurt
(so fortunate I really can’t complain),
that even first world problems carry hurt –
if one’s alive one senses: pain is pain.

So I will mention (softly, like a mouse),
that though I love my hermitage, I learn
I need to leave the confines of my house,
if I’m to have the comfort of return.

I’m lucky, healthy, sheltered, on my own
(So what if I’m locked in? I’ll write a poem).
I can’t see half my kids except by phone.
Forever here I never welcome home.

I’m near-ashamed to gripe, but I assert
that pain is truly pain, and hurt is hurt.

This entry was posted in Coronaverse, Home, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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