Aftermaths. A poem by James O Toole

I sit. Ponder.
Is this it?
On my own good self
no concern.
On Her, Them
the bleeding willies.
This is bigger than Them
we were slow to cop it.
Xmas drinking
brought Chinese whispers
but storm after storm assailed
us into indifferece.
We were Gods chosen.

Besides, we were busy doing nothing.
We never saw it coming.
There will be deaths, babies, divorce
the usual suspects.

will there be a better world?


Just love poetry as a distraction.

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