I'm tired of being a poet.
Tired of working for you for free,
feeling your feelings for you
so you won't have to dirty your shoes.

I'm tired of being the sensitive one,
the one who decides,
who walks out alone onto black ice,
who keeps track of all the tiny movements of birds,
flowers, trees, lost childhoods,
cute little animals, wild fires raging, tragic loves.
Tired of shooting the stars,
sick unto death of keeping the planets aloft
by the force of my thought.
I'm sick of your mother's dishrag alcoholism.
I'm really sick of Ireland.
I'm sick of a thistle seed watching me,
hovering in the summer haze like a star of Bethlehem.

I'm not remembering any more birdsā songs.
That could be a chickadee or a turkey vulture. I don't care.

I'm sick of colors, of distinguishing sepia from burnt umber.
Food is food.
It's a little gray bird.

No more significant endings.

Karah Stokes lives, writes and gardens in Lexington, Kentucky.
She can be reached by email at karah@gumballpoetry.com

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