My Sympathy

my sympathies aren’t born of grace

like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,

ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands

to feed the twittering songbirds

perched on her windowsill

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it comes from a far more wretched place,

emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts

the inherent virtue of the word

because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,

but by every instance unaccounted for

in which i should’ve felt the same pity

for myself

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my sympathy is abundant and involuntary

as though in response to constant overflow

and extends much further than hungry birds

or grieving friends

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it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans

that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,

and to the virtual strangers that walk past,

their defeats and quandaries overheard,

and to every unfortunate soul between,

under the sole condition that

they don’t share a brain with me

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