For People Here

Our selfishness can be, at times,
A blinding thing, I fear:
For what seems paradise to you,
Is work, for people here.

It’s warm and where you are, it’s cold.
It’s beautiful and clear —
Unless you’re trying to catch a fish
Twelve hours with a spear.

In which case, living in your house
Might seem like paradise —
But any who might envy us
Seem odd or ill-advised —

Our self-absorption is a fact
Excused because we’re frosty —
That our perspective shows a lack
At other times, is costly.

For if we can’t in simple things,
How do we think we’ll manage
To understand those yet unmet
Of unknown disadvantage?

For people here, a job’s job,
Just like it is out there:
And we can see it if we choose,
Or just choose not
To care

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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