Maria José Ponte


The Inconvenience


She said she was leaving

The job was too much

For the Doctors diagnosed a life of permanent pain

They sat looking at her, with “well what about us”

Thinking only of the inconvenience

Are you sure you can’t stay?

The job’s not that hard!


With the odd “poor Consuelo”

Thrown in for good measure

A token acknowledgement

Of  her pain.


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This entry was posted on October 1, 2012 by in Poetry.
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