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Book of Grievances



I walk forward
(the only direction there is)
carrying my shabby-but-sacred
Book of Grievances
with me everywhere and always
though I know that in the end
(the only destination there is),
as I lie there stunned, disappointed, and sad,
I will throw it from me,
as hard and as far from myself as I am able.
I won't want it, won't care to remember anything
recorded in it (in fact, couldn't bear to).
I know this, yet could no more part with it now
than with my heart, my feet, my advance.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.