A moment of indulgence;
for I have spilled my soda,
and you are searching for
napkins:
right pocket, left
pocket, jacket –
meanwhile, I have
tissues, tucked precisely
in my own
backpack
watching you struggle is
adorable, perplexing, as if
slight suffering
justifies
affection
What does it mean
to not expect,
and be surprised?
To not desire,
but to exist in
simple
moments?
In such a fleeting
moment
of unadulterated
complicity –
is this what
friends do,
kindness in discrete,
foldable portions,
unexpected bliss
never beyond
these
confined
means?
Must we demand
more?
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson