Special Report Fatigue
Day after weary day,
the droning of a lunatic,
a petulant two-year old
grown too large—whinging
when the world denies him
what he wants. Screen time
can soothe him, though never
for long; he hungers still
for the whole bright field
of attention. The pundits
manufacture noise and call
it insight. In the echo chamber,
they fill the hours with recycled
thunder. Tiresome, ridiculous,
even. I need a nap.Morning noon and night
he blusters. Ceaseless rage,
demands and news bulletins
scream futile pleas day after
grinding day, Exhaustion
hollows the bones,
a dull and gnawing
drain—no end, no pause,
just the weight. Amber salve
could heal, bring comfort
to this raw, gaping wound
we call democracy.
