Writing

 
Now I do feel like crying,
but who has time to cry?
It's time for working, too busy
To attend the inner workings of grief
of sadness
of tears that stab at the throat.
So I'll pretend that the sadness is hunger,
Try to eat something.
Unleavened bread, maybe, or salty meat.
Never mind that the scale says I eat too much grief.
After all, what have I got to be sad about?
It's not like anybody died.
But it's time to work, not to eat.
Time to write. Long stories for hard markets
that don't like sadness.