You only move because the baby needs your milk,
or it’s time, gone time, for the dog to be walked,
or your bladder signals fullness.
You only hear the last vibration of the church bell’s hour,
or bass notes as the cleaning truck corners away,
nothing of the ping to remind you to phone your Dad.
You only see the blooms that need dead-heading,
or the mark left by a long ago red wine spill,
or cloud invading that morning’s sky.
You not only cry for Nice,
for the injured, the bereaved,
you cry for your helplessness.