life is a 72 year old hangover
and I am tired
tired of the endless meetings
tired of the cordial conversations
the unfriendly faces
the stares from others
the death of compassion
I’m tired of the sun
and the cracks in the sidewalks
and the crackling sounds my aging bones make
I’m tired of the fiber
I’m tired of smudged glasses, running errands,
filling the gas tank, the bills, fighting for approval,
fighting to belong,
tired of how the other half lives
but I am not tired of being alive
I’m tired of being a ghost
in a room full of the living
I’m tired of looking at the calendar
of making decisions
that aren’t mine to make
of paying taxes
of winter and the death of everything
of loneliness
but I’m not tired of the birds
they have done nothing
for me to be tired of
