Day nine

Fatigue

I am tired. The energy from my body seems

to slowly leave me like the colors of maples

in the winter. How vibrant they once were-

charging into winter with crimson fury.

I imagine people in sweatshops in third

world country feel this constantly, it gives

me no comfort. What kind of sound does

a starving child make during the night? Or

do they make any sound at all? Are they quiet

saving every last bit of energy pushing forward

like those maples facing cold dead nights? Is it

the sound of falling leaves splashing into soft

ground? I hope I will never know. Yet, I sit here

and complain, belly full of food. Exhausted from

clerical labor. My ancestors cringe in their

graves when I grumble about a hard days work.
My soft hands would tremble under the weight

of the plow, the swing of the ax. Would I survive

a day, sun cracked against my bent back, under

sweltering monsoon heat? I am too lazy, too privileged

to know what tired really means. Today I hunch

over a computer screen in an air-conditioned home.
I live like a king, but dare to say that I feel like the poor--

not like the shanty town shacks of a national geographic

photo, not like the beggar in the urban sprawl who hasn't

showered in three weeks, but like a spoiled child

who cries when he gets no dessert. I do not know

of pain and weary. Yet I complain and complain

and complain.

15:17