Hidden from the burden of conversation, you graze your toe across a rock
-- slice.
Pain, creeping
wrapping its hot oils up your calf
it hurts more
no one wants to share
who understands?
don't be silly!
you’re on your own now
no one will be calling your name
So desperate
for a box you search
to hide your grief, happiness, and doubts in
some are presented with one
a carved handmade one
with gold outlines
who knows how they got one
the unlucky stumble upon the rich boxes of others
smothering them with inpatient finger prints of hope
but why
why they plead
in their constant prayers
why must they have the ***** leftovers
the cups recycled
used in a previous place for ***** samples
too small even for three people
they clean it and make due
what else can they do
Wait.
that’s what
But. Why?
are they not worthy?
ugly?
already fortunate?
I guess that works
and most are happy with it
see it around them
everybody has a *** cup
but what happens when everyone gets lucky?
You hide Envy?
no ignorant ones
Alone.