Hundreds at a Moment

Every morning when I wake up

I see—

just another day in the run.

And even before I

open my eyes

the start-gun has fired

I miss it, and,

I miss it every day.

When I get on the streets

there are people running everywhere.

Perhaps they have heard the gun,

perhaps they have a head start,

perhaps they are happy to be ahead.

But when I pass besides them,

in my slow, sleepy gait

I see them sad and gloomy

tired in the morning

and dead in the evening.

They’re all walking (as it seems)

but actually dragging sacks of burden,

that does not seem to be there

but, they know it is there,

and I know it is there.

Then I look at myself,

at my feet

that follow these men

in haste and chase;

at my hands, that push them

and make space for my chest.

At my head that has long back

stopped thinking and acting wise

but only following where the crowd goes.

I think for a moment, I am trapped

or that I am wrong

but, then I see

hundreds of them doing the same shit

and I wonder—

how could hundreds at a moment be ever wrong?