Sorrow Has a Home
And It’s Not in My Coffee
You abuse sorrow as your social lubricant. You are not sorry, nor even apologetic, for simple misstatement nor for taking the last coffee in the pot. Respect me enough to trust I won’t wilt in the glare of your inadvertent offense, that I might manage another few minutes without caffeine.
If you’re bothered at all, be bothered that people live on the ground next to the lot where you park every day; be bothered by that when it’s frigid, and just as bothered when it’s not. If you’re bothered at all, you can’t spare concern for a lost opportunity to smile when passing in the hall.
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