the elders would call it bone-tired
the way they could drag their hollow
through office buildings and infinite
corridors that led always to more work
now that our elders are leaving who will
teach us what to call this new feeling?
the bereavement that comes after we’ve
already lost too much and the next
exhaustion that follows the last, and
what will we call centuries of the same
with a promise of more, what will we
name the feeling of freedom slipping
through our fingers? I wake up in the
morning, my body already done in, I cannot
coax words from a still place or sense
from all of this disaster I can hardly taste
tomorrow’s dreams on the breath of yesterday
and what am I supposed to call this river that
will not cease how do I harness this anger
that wants to sink my body like an
abandoned ship? Could we still call this a
beginning? a deep breath before a long race?
another and another and another chance
to prove our humanity to whoever it is that is
watching? call it a miracle if you have to
to survive call it unprecedented call it the last stand
the final say resilience with a straight face and
then wake up tomorrow and do it again