Seven kinds of sadness

I wrote this poem a few weeks ago, and have been putting off posting it, because it is about sadness. But that's allowed, as much as anything else I could write about.

Seven Kinds of Sadness

I noted down seven kinds of sadness

in case of confusion or mistaken identity.

Here is one: a child wailing is scolded,

dismissed in frustration until you spy

the tiny fingers pinched white in a drawer.

Another: your lover weeps a wound

that your presence cannot salve,

no matter how warm you think your hands.

A third: a story of thousands of faces and

miles away, cut down with the pepper-shot

of distant metal. Your tears are grey.

More: a hot wave of blood rage and you

whip out words as knives:

"It was good enough for her."

Here is a fifth: A casket, gash in ancient earth

a human hole that crams your nose and ears

with crumbled dirt in honour of the dead.

Another: An animal in pain, stilled by the thud of tyres.

His liquid eyes forgive what you know he

believes came to him by your hand.

And the last, the seventh sadness:

when you could have helped,

but you didn't know.