Stop, Cry

Sometimes, not often, 

I'd see my mother crying

in the middle of an afternoon, 

her knitting slumped in her lap, 

over no cause I knew of, till now, 

being her age then, though not having seen

as much as she who witnessed genocide first hand, 

but having seen more than enough, 

I stop pumping gas and cry for this world, 

which seems so hopelessly forsaken that 

somebody ought to cry for it. 

Somebody ought to stop shopping 
or close their laptops and shed

some crocodile tears for this
sorry world.

C