my sympathies aren’t born of grace

like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,

ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands

to feed the twittering songbirds 

perched on her windowsill 

it comes from a far more wretched place, 

emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts 

the inherent virtue of the word 

because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,

but by every instance unaccounted for 

in which i should’ve felt the same pity 

for myself 

my sympathy is abundant and involuntary

as though in response to constant overflow 

and extends much further than hungry birds 

or grieving friends 

it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans 

that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,

and to the virtual strangers that walk past, 

their defeats and quandaries overheard,

and to every unfortunate soul between, 

under the sole condition that

they don’t share a brain with me