In Praise of the Trivial

Thursday's Poem

I don’t think I was meant to carry two wars
and a famine in my helplessness
I don’t think I was meant to try to sooth
all of the suffering by catching it my hands

the waterfall of headlines numbs my fingers
their rushing drowns undocumented whimpers
spilling from a closed door as I pass by
one house over from my own
on this unremarkable street

“What can I do?”
”Be aware,” she says.

I pull up sensual memories
tapping my unrelated pain because at some point
I conflated empathy with compassion
I repeat slogans as secular prayers

“What can I do?”
”Witness,” she says.

The sea. The boats. The birds.
Something like an infection spreads
so much erosion—we’ve resigned ourselves
to the fact that world is round

but we misunderstood—the world
is still finite with sharp
sudden edges to remind us
of our impermanence

“What can I do?”
”Stay engaged in the world,” she says.

I look up from my phone and
out the window as the train passes
a thawing lake

I peel a mandarin
I hold the rind to my nose
I lick the bitterness from my fingers

I slip a white-veined, orange boat into my mouth
and it is
too sweet to bear

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