What was always good
enough for everyone,
ever since the beginning,
can’t now be enough
to make me content.
An inmate, released,
with a job and good friends,
has more reasons to smile
than he’s ever wished for.
with the magic of trains,
or the wonderful aid of antibiotics,
praise creation as I never could.
My hands have never harvested grain.
The skin is smooth, and supple, and soft,
but leaves me thinking that farming is hell.
Technology’s wonder is a boon to us all,
but is wasted on those who know nothing else.
My hands are soft because I have been fed…
…but now that I can’t ever feed myself,
being fed isn’t enough.