written By
A friend died
the same day
another friend gave birth.
I was all
commiserations
and congratulations,
and the former
were clichéd and prosaic
and the latter forced
and cursory.
I don’t know
whether sorry and happiness
worked on one another
to achieve some kind
of insipid mean
or if a poet,
away from his writing materials,
is just as verbally inept
when it comes to expressing feelings
as any other.
Maybe if my friend had died one day
and my other friend given birth
on the next.
I could have dreamed between.
I could have drowned in the depths
between two shallows
