Harboring Resentment

I am harboring Resentment.

She is a Big Ship —

Heavy.

Came in with the rising tide,

ground upon 

the sands of my heart.

 

There is a Plague 

upon the land.

Braying, yodeling nonsense —

its critical symptom.

 

It was supposed to be

an easy thing.

Numbers nudge upward,

and it just made sense —

to be kind,

to put fabric over face,

to follow the facts,

to get the cleverest jab 

the world has ever seen — 

thanks to the tireless work 

of the smartest women.

 

But the

Trumpeting of Elephants 

was so loud,

that even the kindest

got tired,

worn down. 

 

Now the Old Broad

rots slowly,

marring the view of the bay.

People come to look at her,

ever drawn to an eyesore,

prodding her planks,

testing her tender thwarts.

 

So, 

I went back to read 

the fine print.

Turns out — 

“pretty views

are 100%

                        not guaranteed.”