A Depressing Thought

Everything, even this poem,

(even the act of writing this poem)

is an act of one-upmanship.

Every conversation, a reprehensible act

of lambasting our neighbour

for the splinter in his eye

while ignoring the plank of wood in our own

(an appropriate metaphor

for the son of a carpenter to articulate).

Are we capable of generosity of spirit?

True praise without an however?

Without a caveat?

I don’t think so.