Enough.


My refrigerator is full,

my cupboards far from bare.

Is that enough?

I have sheets for my bed,

a pillow for my head.

Is that enough?

I have meaningful work to occupy my days,

a consistent income stream.

Surely, that is enough.

I have a partner, dog, writing pen;

car, family, and a plentitude of friends.

Isn’t that enough?

A neighbor has faces on a screen

but no one’s skin to touch.

A friend can pay her bills

but only for 11 months.

A student’s aunt has a ventilator

but her parents have healthy lungs.

A nurse has protective gear

but it must be worn more than once.

A couple shares a life of love

but one dies alone: isolated, untouched.

No matter what they say,

that is not enough.

I live in abundance;

I have so very much.

What is the heaviness in my chest

that make my shoulders slump?

Maybe ‘more’ was never the answer

to a gnawing hunger in the gut.

Maybe tragedy isn’t what washes my shore,

but what lands on all of us.

Enough, enough.

Enough.

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