The sun still rises, they tell me
outside these curtains –
musicians play, children laugh
office workers follow their
daily drone-like routes
in car, train, tube.
It may be so.

People fall in love, they tell me
in bars, on streets –
their pulses race, palms sweat
when eyes meet over the rims of teacups,
sparking a moment’s understanding
in a swift, shy, glance.
And it may indeed be so.

Hope is not gone, they tell me:
in the midnight sky –
Orion shines as clearly as he ever did
when we watched him together;
he moves through the same course,
his belt still tight.
No doubt, that’s so.

They don’t tell me why I should care.
They have no words to connect me,
all their kindnesses can’t rebuild
a bridge that crumbled behind pallbearers feet.

Life goes on, they tell me
In their bustling world –
I nod and listen, without contradicting,
let their well-meaning words
flutter, settle, melt like snow
in a mild winter.
In the end, they’ll go.

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