Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Maggie Smith

This poem came across my feed this week, and my first thought was “Maggie Smith the actress?” to which The Poetry Foundation responded “Not that Maggie Smith.” And so I have been elevated a small bit from my tiny culture bubble, and I’m all the better for it.

I love the balance of light and dark imagery she uses to sell her thesis. The entire thing is beautiful.

The Poetry Foundation has more on Maggie Smith.