it can be quite a cross to bear — no – to haul
into this small office every day
with a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes
my silent crucifix of ‘expertise’
no one knows of yesterday’s lorazepam
or the sharp-edged fangs of today’s plan
so i scrabble on the cobbled streets
to keep my precious cross with me
It feels awkward to type with grief sitting on my shoulders.
The ghosts sidle in, mutter Write a line for me.
Half – paralyzed when someone asks what’s up? Why
have things been hard? what’s going on u good or ??
Not really? idk
how to say it without second-
third- fourth- hand vicarious traumatization
So I say just part of this work. Which maybe is true.
Maybe everyone else is all burned out too.