Pragmatism

We exhaust ourselves caring while the world burns

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what monster am I
blank-eyed at others’ misfortune
hearts, cancer, surgery, death
an arrow to the chest
in lieu of a shovel to the head

ghost-lives outside my reason
seem too much to grasp, to feel
with hands already full
how terrible am I to offer
this condolence-shaped box?

in the course of business-as-usual
we exhaust ourselves plugging
leaks where sentiment seeps
expenditures in the ledger
tally us up as beasts

but this is the meaning of etiquette, dear
small boxes neat-labeled and closet-kept
given out for unforseenities
when the larder of our hearts
has run close to dry

it happens sometimes — sorry about that