The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who

don't get in your way, who

open doors and don't

expect a thankyou.

Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who

don't dart up their hands, or butt in, who

see a space but don't see themselves

inside it.

Curséd are the generous, those who

don't take credit but give it and get

nothing in return but

forgetfulness.

Curséd are the myrmidons, the hard

workers, the al-desko set:

someone else

enjoyed their lunchtime.

Curséd are those with talent but no balls

watching those with balls but

no talent rise

effortlessly above them.

Curséd are those whose work gets farther away

as the roads get clogged earlier and

later until jam going meets

jam coming back.

Curséd are the worriers who

churn in their hearts' syrupy valves

the clogging cares

of others.

Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,

each feeling the other neglectful while

neither has anything like

a life.

Curséd are the children who wait at the gate

for a late parent whose tears, heard

through the wall, will

eviscerate their youth.

And above all curséd are the people whose

goodness drips off your life like

beads of rain off an

impermeable.