The Art of Being

You keep the gifts
That I couldn't afford.
It would be shameful
To beg them restored.

You can keep the ones
I could afford, too.
The prose, those poems,
They only make sense to you

You can keep the words
Of advice, comfort, tears,
Of remorse.  Never enough,
But I'm doing my best here.

You can keep the time,
Together, or apart but tethered.
A portion cut from my life,
A prime cut. Few were better.

Why should I concede?
I guess it depends.
Can reluctant generosity
Be a kind of revenge?

Or this be my progress,
Learning the art of being?
Will I learn to stop feeling angry
If I just learn to stop feeling?