Peaches

I’m so tired,

Work’ll do that

To a body, a mind;

Perhaps my thinking’s

Not so straight

But this?

This is too brief,

Has been nowhere

Near enough.

Too short,

Too black and white,

Nondescript.

No sweetness.

Robbed

Of life,

Of space

Of tomorrows …

And this was

All it deserved?

This passing,

This new burden-old,

This one-more-time grief:

Intrusion, parasite opinion?

This savagery?

I’m so tired.