Wisdom They will pretend to be enlightened ones But all the old conspiracies come first. They do not care if your illusions burst Because a victim helplessly succumbs. The grief you feel, that terrifies or numbs, Remains unknown to them; they feel, at worst, Deserving of ice cream, or maybe thirst For ginger ale, deep as this feeling runs. Yet even if they cannot get their treat They breathe; down to the bottom of their feet Their breath comes rushing in and out and through, Its rise and fall sufficient and complete. They are sustained by what is given you, So breathe, there’s nothing else you need to do
Robert Donohue’s Poetry has appeared in The Raintown Review, Better Than Starbucks, The Ekphrastic Review, among others. He lives on Long Island NY.
Grand Little Things 