Our 30s are not what we thought they would be.

Neither glorious i-solo-lation or conjoined us-ness,

Picking over the carcass of what they said or rather didn’t say.

Just another day, given over to them, not us.

Justice would dictate that good triumph;

That righteous friends would treat the right friends

With the human kindness.

But the scars and moral mazes,

Show that’s not the way the world runs

When another revelation draws a shrug

Or an extended hand across a sticky table.

We are all there is; platitudes spoken too many times

In pubs and coffee shops

But we all know where they spring from

These care-worn packages expressing love,

And warmth,

And pastry covered fatness,

To fend off the cold

And feed us up for what is yet to come.