Meatballs Poem by jkd jkd

My mind works best when my hands are busy.
So I open the window to the damp rainy air
which slowly replaces the kitchen stink
the smell of sixteen-hundred frying meatballs
and the oily, greasy reek of simmering onions.
I shake my head and only then is it
that I perceive the way my hair smells,
disgusting.
And I wonder -
why does everybody ask themselves the same questions
again and again
from Homer to Shakespeare to Milton to Rich to me.
Why do we feel so much desperation?
Why does everybody think their pain is unique?
Outside the rain is still falling
fine, damp and grey.
I close the window and go to bed.
Tomorrow everything will be the same.