I might regret doing this, but here it is: "enough." I wrote this poem during the first lock down in Melbourne, Australia in (the soon to be historical) 2020. I sent the poem out to a variety of publications, only for it to not get published. I nearly sent it to The Melbourne Writer's Group, but I had a conversation with my brain, who said, "hey... everyone else hated it, so they will hate it too". So... anyway... I am putting it here. If I don't put it here now, I will have to wait until 2070 before this poem becomes mildly interesting again, and only as an artifact of this moment in time.
Also... this is for the last of the revolutionaries... and the first sandwich thief... and the gummy-bear man. Yeah, you know who you are. If you're one of these people and you hate this, then... go... eat some cheese.
Enough
After seven hours on your feet, you still make time
to pack someone else’s tomorrow’s lunch.
You feed your children or your parents, because: life…
and then at midnight,
you write lessons that facilitate it.
Every day you offer your hands, your eyes, even your car
because every day and every thing and any time
is not enough,
and your students always ask you questions
that start with: why,
and end with, does this matter?
Sometimes your students toss chairs or eat their exams,
or they do nothing, nothing,
so that their parents ask if you are enough: can you
design their future –
you wonder.
Even when there’s a pandemic
you keep washing your hands
and growing your hair,
and going back and forth
between hollow classrooms and the cobwebs
of your front door – your days hang on the pendulum
of the relentless doomsday clock.
Sometimes you go home, you open your fridge,
you are greeted by an onion, a wedge of cheese, a quarter glass of wine…
and in it, your reflection.
Your spouse needs to talk or your dog needs to walk,
and the baby needs changing.
You step outside into shadow.
For seven seconds, you are alone with the street
and as the moon drifts though a phase,
you dream of ways you can speed up
and catch tomorrow;
and you reflect on the puzzle of the forgotten:
the Taylas, the Lachlans, the Jordyns, and
Elliot, who has lost enough,
– do you have enough for them?
So, you answer the question:
it is because of you
that I know what it means to be
enough for me.
- e s liew