The phone rings but not for you
and you try to be calm, composed
-but that is not you
You throw a plate to the ground
in frustration
You weep into the crook of your
arm at the sound of the china
breaking. And upon looking up
you see Eliot
waiting with words from Burnt Norton
(and like the best of them, dead
so long) articulating your sadness,
making it all seem so trivial, and so
you sit up, and stop crying
and read well past East Coker.
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