Sorrow softens us
corrodes our defenses
bares us to the world
makes us shy
casting down our eyes
pulling at our tattered fig leaves
and waiting for a voice in the evening.
We sit down a little slower
pause before answering questions
take the back stairs
and wait for the emptier bus.
But we are softer, too, I think.
Seeing deeper
into the eyes
of those who squirm
on the other end
of their own questions.
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