it wears on us,
Creator of the ends of the earth,
it wears on us.

another day
of opening the paper,
another young girl
raising a child
before she has outgrown
playing with dolls;

another trip to the mall,
and seeing them (again),
that knot of pre-adult boys
all looking the same:
pant waists down around their knees,
necks choking with bling,
hats turned every which way
but proper;

it wears on us.

yet
the ones we are
too weary to handle,
you gather up
and hold on your lap;

the kids who fatigue us,
you lift up
and place on your shoulders
as you dance through
the streets of the kingdom.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman