Less fortunate

They were/are less fortunate than I,

Sitting in their lot of life,

Where sadness swamps their day,

And tears are no longer enough. 

Where upward movement seems unlikely,

Yet depression holds its teeth from biting,

And softly stays on the edge of daily life.

Close enough to be grateful for what is there. 

Living next door to misery can last forever,

As gratefulness comes in small containers,

A hot meal, shelter and a dog that loves unconditionally. 

As all dogs do.  

Seeing sorrow is sorrow itself,

Not knowing if empathy or help is needed,

As their sorrow flows through my veins

Like an infusion of drugs. 

And Mater Dolorosa’s pain becomes real.

Copyright 2024 Michael J. Cunningham OFS