I’m sorry you’ve got the cancer
that your girlfriend left you
that your mouse had a miscarriage
and your cat had cirrhosis.

I feel awful that your last eighty submissions got rejected your plants were neglected
your mirrors unreflected
and your journal projected
digitally across town.
I’m sorry that you wear a frown.

I apologize that I was two hours late
that your porridge is too hot
that your leftism is just right
and your car payment was due tonight.

I get that you’re going through a bad time
with the blood clots and the bad dates
and the frustration with all of the modern world
and the job where they don’t want you cursing profusely at the children.
I see it’s a bad week for you
and again
I’m sorry that I was late
but that doesn’t mean
you can move in with me.
Not now.
Not ever.

See:
you’re just too much of a downer.