one of my turns

Or not.

Some days, moving looks too hard to try.
And thinking gives you a headache.
All the last straws weigh you down.
Like the chicken whose nose
Has been shoved into the ground
Whose beak has been rubbed in the mud
Til it thinks that the mud is the sole,
The only world it has.

Some days I'm a chicken.


But warm-blooded.
A donkey. Or a mule.
A beast of self-imposed burdens.
Some of which are purely imaginary.

And sometimes by lunch-time -
When the mud begins to get to me,
Making me sneeze ands sneeze and sneeze -
I may even look at the sky.