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 pastry covered fatness,
To fend off the cold
And feed us up for what is yet to come.