I Cry All the Time
I cry all the time, for no reason,
for a tree in flower, a magazine mailed
to someone dead, spilled orange juice.
Heretofore I played the stoic.
Some wall of brick around my
soul disintegrated. I am fearful.
I fret for things that cannot matter.
Things don’t matter.
Of late I dream about my parents.
I’m old. I can’t recall when they
died, perhaps I never knew. Had I
been born to different parents
would I now not be crying?
Or crying more? No reply.
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