Just driftwood, hollow and of no use

It isn’t fair

It isn’t it fair that I can sit here
in this warm house
on this warm Autumn night
in this warm city

Alone, but always with the warmth of friends
alone, but blessedly aware that I am not

alone here, but not unheard
alone here, but not unseen

and there they are
slain by hate
by blindness

and here I am
with only words to offer
and regret
and fury

It isn’t fair

that anyone should
believe that they are
not touched by the
tragedies occurring
so often we cannot
catch our horrified breaths

can barely comprehend
the moment when the
rope is in their hands
the gun is held to their heads
the pills are swallowed
the leap is taken
in a chase for peace
for some respite from
the torment of their
peers or their families
or those in this world
who wish they wouldn’t exist

there are no metaphors for this
there are no similes that can
equivocate articulate
the glaring realities
of boys and men
and girls and women
and those who defy all

those who must
be afraid of their love
who must be wary of harassment
who must be ready to combat judgment

to say it bluntly,
these words seem hollow
in a warm house
in a warm autumn
in a warm city

in a world
where children die
the queer ones
the ones caught in floods
and earthquakes
and wars
and droughts
and famines

but the words
they will help
carry me somewhere

to that tomorrow
sitting in the distance
peaceful and warm
waiting for us

where the lost
who impatiently left us
are waiting.