You have my sympathies

It is the children
stood behind fathers
I feel sorry for...
Staring helplessly
as can after can
empties on to the conveyor belt
laughing at the ready meals
which make room for them.

The almost new borns
screaming from prams
amongst docile kin
whilst mummy keeps
her breakdown hidden
the only way she knows how.
Later, they will carry on
screaming as she corrects
her cleavage.

The half dead woman:
late fourties, staring
blankly at the immediate space
she must tread through
in order to get to nowhere.
Her knitted wool top
now a collection
of impossible creases
and gravy stains.
Who brought her here?

The artform;
blessed by its masters
who knew there was further
to go everytime.
Fante had every line right,
Dostoevsky told the perfect story
all to be forgotten...
Replaced by this
and worse.

Pity should be limited
to those who don't know
what will come
of the situations
they don't understand.

We are all flowers...
Those who choose to deprive
themselves of nutrients
will wilt without empathy
whilst those who are starved
deserve warning
before they have to watch
the weeds rob them
of what little light
and breath they need
to blossom