(for Sir Bob Geldof)
Sometimes I think we are, each of us
born with a hidden deficit.
but it takes time to reveal itself.
Born into this fighting world
we squeal with life
and are checked for deficiencies:
Both arms? Both legs? All the fingers and toes?
Good. What a perfect little being!
Everybody’s got a hole to fill.
In time, it can undermine-
consume itself, like a sinkhole in our faces
staring straight into our reflections
we can fail to see it.
We get the sense that something is amiss.
So we start to comb over the spreading bald spot,
wear hats to hide our embarrassment,
lather the blemish with obscuring make-up
and go into our lives
gaping wounds yawning in our heads.
Each can see it in the other,
but not in ourselves.
How ironic then
that we have hidden caches,
secret stashes of sand in forgotten pockets-
a gain here, a thimbleful there
and just enough!
Just enough to fill somebody else’s hole…
If only we knew!
All we need do
is reach into those unacknowledged pockets
and grab a handful of that sand
to make a human chasm
What kind of people have these reserves
to patch a pothole in the human soul,
yet withhold something as elemental as sand?
Unknowing hoarders, all
because we keep these pockets a secret
(8- 29- 15)
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