Space To Process

To call you a pansy insults the flower. It seems you cried for nearly an hour; your mother called to say she’d lost. So ‘space to process’ at a cost of fifty six thousand for the year to cancel class and sip craft beer… ‘Buck up’ is what my mum would say, but then of course she’d never pay so I could breakfast with the dean and wring my hands about well-being. I guess I’m old; my youth is gone. I’d likely say, Get off my lawn! But hun, you life is going to hurt when you discover things like dirt and sweat and toil and grit and grime. I hope that in some future time, you’ll look back on Trump’s second win, say, Man, I was a pansy then.