There’s no room at my inn,
it was never large;
standard of care modest,
beds indifferent,
the fare, though well-intentioned,
plain -
and now there’s absolutely no more
room,
no vacancies.
I’ve had it up to here.
Other people’s problems
are other people’s problems;
I need my own air to breathe.
The libations of hospitality
are ceasing, as of now;
I will no longer visit the poor,
the indigent,
bind up broken hearts, splint
souls,
comfort the mourners,
watch with the lonely for coming
night,
prepare the defenceless for
approaching day,
hold homeless children,
or any more strive after dignity
in human life.
There’s no more room at my inn;
I’ve put up the shutters.
I’m not sure there’s even a
stable.
(November,
1988)
