The wrong times are the right times

​The wrong times are the right times.
 
I cry at the wrong times
which are the right times
 
Sitting on a plane, in a restaurant
or some other very public place
while reading or listening to some
sad or happy story.
 
Tears flow sans filter.
 
It seems over the years with each
loss, regret, tender moment I
fill the reservoir in my gut – an
organ unnamed while tending
to those whose needs are greater
then mine
            or so I tell myself.
 
Yet, the wrong times which are the
right times arrives to spill the tears
into the soup bowl or over the lettuce
creating glistening monuments which,
after all, are the memorial to what
is best within us.
 
Empathy seem such a bland word for
such depth of knowing that with each
birth and death our oneness is evidenced.
 
Written August 7, 2018